


November

by Kabi



Series: November [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Arranged Marriage, Bride Capture, CarrierVerse, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Gender Issues, M/M, Maledom, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 90,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabi/pseuds/Kabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a sterility plague has nearly extincted mankind, a few men begin to manifest a rare and unpredictable ability to bear children. As everyone struggles to rebuild, these Carriers try to find their own identity in a changing world - and become the targets of a desperate society.</p><p>Jesse, Ortega, Sloane, and Tiger are four men living very different lives when the Change comes to them. They all meet when they are drafted into a re-integration program at the Carrier Education Centre, and their stories are ones of adventure, romance, frustration, captivity and fear - but ultimately of love, in its many and varied forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

"I don't want to do it." Jesse crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I _won't_."  
  
The counselor frowned down at his desk, then looked up kindly at the stubborn young man in front of him.  
"You're going to have to face up to this sometime, Jesse."  
"No." the younger man shook his head obstinately, "I don't, because there's nothing to face up to."  
"Jesse - "  
"Please don't make me do this," he rushed out, and the counselor paused. "Please don't make me leave."  
"Jesse, I'm not asking you to leave - "  
"You may as well. If you register me with them, you know what will happen."  
"Even if I _don't_ register you, it'll happen. Someone will find out eventually. And then they'll still come after you, only I won't be able to do anything to help you."

Jesse slouched sullenly in his chair, all pretense of politeness gone. The counselor sighed a heavy sigh. "Come on, Jess, do your part. You know what's going on. We're all going to disappear if people like you don't start helping."   
Jesse scoffed.  
"People like me." he repeated.  
"Look, just let me register you. I don't want to see you get into trouble that you can't get out of. I want to see you safe, and happy."  
"I'm happy here."  
"But not safe."  
"I'm safe now."  
"Well, not for much longer."  
Jesse bit his lip.  
"Nobody ever has to know." he said in a very small voice, standing alone in his last refuge of bargaining.  
"Someone will find out, Jesse, eventually, and then you'll really be in trouble." The counselor paused, tapped a pen on his desk. "But just _think_ of what you could do with this, Jess. There are men out there who would kill for your luck. You can have anything you want in the world. This is real power. A gift."  
"No. It's not a gift, and I don't have any power. If I did, I could do the one thing I want - but I can't, can I? I can't stay here, can I? No. Because of _this_ \- this stupid curse, this stupid _disease_ , my stupid fucking body."

There was quiet in the small office for a minute, until Jesse ground his jaw and exhaled.   
"Put me on the list."   
The counselor nodded, smiling a small smile of relief, and sat back in his chair.  
"Should I have a few of the potentials contact you?" Jesse shrugged.  
"Whatever. Have them call my CO at the barracks if they think they've got something interesting to say."  
"Oh," the counselor cringed, just slightly, and turned back to Jesse. "You'll have to be moved, immediately."  
Jesse's eyebrows shot up. "Immediately?"  
"It would be unsafe for you to be allowed to remain, for any period of time. Jesse, you can imagine what might happen." 

The young man on the other side of the desk sighed a weary, frustrated sigh. The counselor raised two hands in a placatory gesture.   
"You can go back there now. I'll wait until 1300h to put you on the list, so you'll have an hour to collect some of your basics. I'll send a jeep to take you."  
Jesse got to his feet and nodded, awkwardly.  
"Well...thank you, sir, for your help."  
"Thank _you_ , Jesse, for your cooperation. And if you need to talk about anything else, Jesse...I'm here."  
The counselor smiled warmly at him, and, for the first time, Jesse thought he might actually begin to like the man.


	2. August

One month later, he'd changed his mind.

"I _have_ to."  
"Em, more or less." the counselor fidgeted awkwardly and Jesse stared in disbelief.  
"You all are forcing me to go on a date."  
"We're not forcing, per se, Jesse, just - "  
"Strongly suggesting?" the counselor nodded tensely. Jesse laughed. "Well, in CEC language, that means forcing."  
"It's just that our supervisors like to see progress. You understand." Jess frowned and picked at the sleeve of his sweater.  
"So I have to go on Friday?"  
"Unless you've got a written medical excuse."  
"Really? So if I - "  
"Don't try it, Jesse."  
"Fine."

The counselor watched the young man across the table from him sulk heartily.

"Listen, it's not that bad. I mean, it's something you'd be doing anyway, right?"   
Jesse just scowled quietly at the wall.   
"You let this guy pick you up, you go out somewhere nice, have a little dinner and if you don't like him, then you never have to see him again. What's the problem?"  
"I don't _need_ anybody to pick me up and take me out. I'm a carrier, not a girl."   
The counselor rolled his eyes.  
"Jesse, this isn't about sex or gender. You know that. It stopped being about that a long time ago. It's about relationship schemes, and balancing ourselves.” The scowl remained. "You'll have a chaperone. You won't be alone."  
Jesse threw both hands up.   
"That's even worse! So if I _do_ happen to like the guy, we can't have three minutes of private conversation?"  
"It's not safe, Jesse." the counselor scolded. Jesse's scowl – by now a formidable pout – somehow intensified.

"Jess, please try to understand."   
The scowl slipped away form Jesse’s face and something very like fatigue took its place.  
"I do understand. You don't."  
"I do, Jesse."  
"No, you don't. _You_ don't have to give up your life for this shit - _you're_ not losing your job, and your freedom, and - I can't even go out with my _friends_ anymore, men I've known and worked with for _years_ \- because they're all male."  
"Jesse - "  
"Like I'm some kind of a whore! Like – like I'll _fuck_ the first dick I find! It's some kind of institutionalized distrust - watch where he's going, who he's with, what he's doing. I'm not a criminal, but somehow I'm on probation and the _whole goddamn world_ is my overseeing officer. Everyone's suddenly decided that they need to make my decisions for me. Everyone's - "  
"Jesse - " the counselor pressed, again.   
"What?!" Jesse spat, flustered and angry.   
"I put myself on the list today."

The counselor raised a hand and self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. "I'd...I'd been stalling, but they said no more. They said it was time."

There was silence in the room. Jesse swallowed.  
"Are they going to let you stay here?"  
"I don't know," the counselor answered, spinning the tiny globe on his desktop with one finger. "It's not really _they_ that are - that factor in. It's more _he_."

The admission made Jesse's heart sink. If even Beckman couldn't escape, then...?

Morbid curiosity compelled him to press further.  
"... _he_?"  
The counselor winced a little and pulled a funny face and did a weird thing with his mouth and then tried to say, nonchalantly, "Yeah. My, uh - well, my boss. CO. Boyfriend, I guess, now." His gaze wandered off into the distance.

Jesse rallied admirably from the shock.  
"Well, _he_ should know better than anyone that they ought to let you stick around. It could be...advantageous if you could better understand the people you're counseling, right?"   
The counselor shrugged.  
"They might say that since I'm... older, I need to concentrate on starting a family. That this work – “ – here, he waved a hand generally toward the awards that decorated the back wall of his cramped office, “Might…distract me. Take up too much of my time. I hope not. I like what I do."

In the labor of silence, the counselor tried haltingly to smile at Jesse.   
"It'll all work out, though."  
Jesse nodded, too vigorously.  
"Most definitely. For both of us."


	3. September - Week One

Jesse blinked gray-blue eyes against sun and took a look at the silver lettering sprawled across the front of the newly-built brick building: _Carrier Education Center_. He hated it already.

As he slumped his way up the front walkway, he shook his head. What a sick joke this all was. Shuffled from one facility to the next, and expected to be happy about it. A few ex-soldiers about his age were milling around outside, a few heading indoors, all carrying or dragging full suitcases. Jesse checked the paper in his hand one more time, shouldered his bag and headed towards the building.

Inside, a table facing the door and decorated with blue and yellow balloons greeted him, and a young carrier who looked far too delighted to see him stood and smiled. Jesse handed over his papers and tried not to stare. The man was the carrier ideal - not too tall, lean but muscular, cut through the waist and smooth through the hips. His light brown hair, carrier-long but still fashionably short, was pulled back from his face with a half-ponytail. His brown eyes were bright and large, their color shining against his tanned skin. His fingernails were clean and short, and he wore a tailored sweater with the sleeves pushed up and a nametag that said Ephram: Peer Advisor.

Jesse hated him already.

Hated his face; the warm brown of his skin that made Jesse look even paler by comparison. Hated his smile, self-assured in the manner of a favored carrier - Jesse guessed he was probably already engaged to a particularly senior officer. Hated his voice, with the acquired lilt and lightness. Hated the sycophantic way he spoke to Jesse. Hated his hands, which were long and fragile and perfect and smooth. Hated the sinuous turn of his body as he reached over the table. Hated the way the light reflected gold in the carrier's hair but only black in his own. Hated the fact that all this came naturally to Ephram, but was so, so hard for Jesse.

The man finished what he'd been doing, gathering things from around the table and stuffing them into a small cloth bag for his new charge.  
"Here you go! This'll be your starter kit. It's got everything you need in it, most especially your C-Book; that's the carrier handbook, which’ll really help you learn all the rules and get adjusted here. Your introduction room is the third one on the right; that's where you'll get your roommate assignment and key. You can take your suitcases with you and they'll be moved from there. Thanks for waiting and welcome to the CEC!"  
The carrier shoved a folder into Jesse's hand, and with that, he was on to the next.

Jesse blinked at his folder; the front had his first name, with identification number listed beneath it, along with his place of origin, blood type, counselor's name (no longer Liam Beckman, so Jesse supposed they must have forced him to quit after all), CEC peer group room number, and a blank space to write in his assigned room number. He walked down the hallway, dragging his bulging suitcase behind him, and knocked on door 3E.

"Come in!"

The door swung open easily to reveal a very large room that looked - to Jesse's eyes - not unlike a kindergarten. The walls were solidly painted in one bright color each - teal, orange, yellow, or white, and there were soft chairs and low tables scattered around over patterned rugs. A huge bay window toppling over with pillows and cushions occupied one entire wall, and there was, at one end of the room, a set of tall glass tables with barstools drawn up to them and at the other end, a pair of futons sat in a circle with three chairs.

The walls were decorated mostly with posters, all of which bore government slogans over pictures of happy, smiling men in pairs. _'Love your country - love your carriers_.' one read. Another said something about being mothers of the new world, and Jesse stopped reading then, because in his opinion, they might as well all say _'Grin and bear it_.' At least then they'd be honest.

He realized belatedly that there were a number of men scattered around the room – some sitting, some standing and some talking, but all looking at him. He ran a hand through his shaggy black hair self-consciously, shifted his damp grip on his suitcase handle. A tall, thirty-something man jogged up to him. It was not immediately clear what his position was. He stuck out a hand to Jesse. Jesse took in his sun-browned skin, hazel eyes and brown hair peppered with gray, which was cut short - not short enough for an officer, but shorter than most carriers were allowed to wear it.

"I'm Sloane." he said, smiling to reveal a set of even white teeth. "I'll be your peer group leader."  
Jesse shook his hand, relinquished his folder when Sloane reached for it.  
"Come on in. Sit down. You can leave your suitcases by the door; someone will be over to get them shortly. You're the last to arrive, so now we can all finish introducing ourselves."

The group gathered around Sloane, who took up a seat in one of the chairs on the far side of the room. Jesse ended up sharing the blue futon with two other carriers: one, a slender, dark-skinned man with shorn hair and black eyes that had a distinct angle to them; the other a small, almost boyish kid with curly black hair that fell over pretty brown eyes in ringlets; the color in his skin was faint - Jesse guessed a mestizo heritage. This one, the little one, was fidgeting in his seat, stealing sideways glances at Jesse. Through the circle, he introduced himself as Ortega. The dark-skinned man was Grant, the ash blonde with the honey brown eyes and lovely accent was Honesty, the cafe-au-lait-skinned femme was Vichy, the stout Pacific Islander ex-athlete was Sai, and the brown-haired mestizo with silver eyes was Suleiman. The man doing all the commanding, of course, was Sloane.

Sloane made them all go around and talk about themselves for three minutes, then they had to write out their definition of a carrier on sheets which Sloane collected for review. Jesse chewed on his pen for two or three minutes, scribbled 'fuck you' across the paper, and handed it back calmly. Sloane made a note of this on his folder. After that, they spent the morning helping each other "get settled" - the seven of them all had connecting rooms linked to Sloane's in a large suite-style arrangement, and their leader insisted that each of them help the others unpack and move in. 'Bonding,' he called it. Jesse reflected that it seemed more like free labor.

Jesse was assigned to share a room with Vichy; the rooms were large, so there was good distance between their own little territories, and a movable screen was available to split the room in two. They spread it out halfway, each stretched out on their respective beds, and Jesse began to reflect on how he'd gotten here.

~~~

_He had come from the War._

The Wars had ravaged all of the earth, save only a few precious places where life had been too remote, too unlikely, or too unwanted to warrant the attention of destruction. Jesse's own country had been conspicuously involved in beginning the process, and had ultimately been one of the hardest hit. Entire cities had been destroyed. Water was high and dirty, land was lying in fallow, salted ruins, and food output was low. Disease still festered even now; everyone had withdrawn, into themselves. More than three-fifths of the population was gone.

In Jesse’s own country, the Union had originally established martial law to try to maintain some semblance of civilization, but then the Wars had never really ended (only slowed enough so that they were indistinguishable from ordinary conflict, or so that conflict _became_ ordinary). And so this had become the way of things: the normal operation of life had become so militarized that it was impossible to remember how things had run without a fight at hand. How had roads been paved? How had food been distributed? How had trade been protected? It all just seemed to make so much sense, with the biggest and most powerful in benign-but-careful charge of everyone else.

The draft had been instated mid-way through the last of the Final Wars, when food had run especially low and the Union had grown desperate. No one was spared. Man, they said, woman, and child.

Children were socialized in military nurseries, placed into military academies, prepared for admission to military units, and then on to a life of service to their country. Adults were placed, according to age and skill, in either direct military service or in various essential jobs. Jesse's mom had been 44 years old when the draft was first whispered about, and 45 when it came. She'd barely missed it. She’d volunteered anyway.

Jesse, on the other hand, had been 12 years old, a sarcastic kid still playing in his mom's quiet apartment in the oldest part of the half-rebuilt city. He could see the in-town military headquarters from where they lived, and had spent many afternoons in his childhood watching the war planes and helicopters take off and land.

It had been summer when the weapon came; Jesse remembered the low, unfamiliar rumbling of unknown planes swooping low, taking fire, not returning it, mechanically determined to release their payloads. It had only taken twenty minutes. Then there had been nothing but smoke and silence, and then the next day: the dead.

The gas had seemed harmless, but it was not – a genetic weapon, the first of its kind, sprayed wholesale over military bases and tactical targets. No civilian sites had been attacked; this was not necessary, as there had barely been any civilians left.

It had been a crude tool; not targeted to specific genetic sequences, but rather striking anything above a threshold of hormonal presentation: female. And thus it had earned the name, for years and years after (although inaccurate): ‘the XX bomb.’ It was also ‘the widower,’ ‘taker of all beauty,’ ‘the rape,’ ‘the motherfucker’ and ‘the destroyer of life.’ Eventually, however, just: ‘the Plague.’

And this had been the most vicious, most pointed act of the enemy; a punishment for that particular brand of impurity, that particular moral weakness, that unique immorality _that sent women away to war_.

 _If you can’t protect them_ , the motherfucker seemed to say, _then you don’t deserve them._

The plague had devastated them, as it had been meant to. There were not enough doctors to heal the ailing women or to save the half-formed babies, and not enough undertakers to bury the ordinary dead. Jesse's mom had been working one the base, but must have left just at the right moment; she had breathed it in, but not enough, perhaps? Or had she had an immunity? No doctor was sure. Perhaps it was that she had not taken the military housing; perhaps it was just that she had been lucky.

She'd had to submit to a million tests, been locked up in quarantine for months on end, but when they found out that she'd simply reached an early menopause and was completely and utterly incapable of producing anything other than Jesse, twelve years old, they'd grown angry. What good was a woman who no longer produced? They forced her into a hysterectomy, cut her belly open and sewed it back up and left her outside the clinic, no longer really concerned whether she lived or died. Jesse took her home; their service was ended. Soria was forgotten. Soria liked it that way.

Then the plague had begun to change. It mutated, grew in form and shape and surpassed its target, forming new identities and reaching new places. No longer were only military women affected - it spread through the cities first, then the countryside, then into other nations and around the world. Soria was not affected. Soria had no womb.

And so the tides had risen, again and again, without receding. The enemy’s weapon had now affected everyone, and the world had been stripped of its women, its fertility, its _viritidas_ , its life. Everywhere, men looked at each other in the streets and wondered: What next? What now?

And so the conflict had begun to die out. Because what was the reason, the motivation, if there was no future? What good was land with no children to leave it to? What good was bloodshed if it did not avenge love? What use was happiness if it was tainted forever by the loss of friends, sisters, mothers, aunts, lovers?

And so the junta had stepped in to fill the void, and slowly, slowly begun to take over until it was reaching grasping fingers into every nook and cranny of the continent and eventually became the only comprehensible center of civilian life. Mandatory years of service for everyone _made sense_ ; they were good. They gave jobs, gave pride, they protected families. Service was a distraction; a reason; an equivocation in the face of certain doom.

And all were required to serve.

Nothing happened for thirteen years.

Then, spontaneously, in some places (strange places), like fish moving into adulthood or frogs adapting or trees switching over… men began to Change.

At its outset, this was cause for more conflict – a renewed since of virility, of vigor, of joie de vivre; men danced in the streets, feeling jubilant, feeling ready, feeling saved. But the appearances remained stubbornly random, irreproducible, uncontrolled, and so the conflicts were set aside and seven of the mega-nations came together, then ten, then thirty, then all the nations left.

Testing worked at first, able to predict six months ahead of time who would change and who would not. But then suddenly aberrations were appearing - mistakes in the code, random new appearances and they realized it was now a Change in itself, still mutating, still growing, now too fast for them to keep up. Their only recourse was to wait.

The Plague had died out by then; run its course and disappeared. The carriers of the new Change were unaffected; none died, as the women had before. The military still ruled. Everyone just waited.

Jesse had been in a morning seminar when he'd felt the pains - just a quick tug at his abdomen, like a pinch, and then it spread down a bit, expanded into nausea, and stopped. He went to the doctor on the third morning, suspecting food poisoning. They did not let him leave. The waiting time had just begun.

Once the Change was discovered, of course, participation in the Carrier Education and Protection program became mandatory. The list was important. The list was service. The list could not be avoided.

 ~~~

There was a knock on the door and Jesse jumped, craned his neck around the screen to see who it was. It was Sloane, coming in to tell them that it was time for lunch.


	4. September - Week Two

The carrier shortage had gotten worse - so much worse, in fact, with the addition of an entire new nation to the Union - that even sterile carriers were being recruited to fill the role of wife for some of the higher-ranking officers. It was around that time that Jesse was first introduced to the fact that Sloane was a carrier.

They had been in classes for a week. Sloane had told them that he liked to start things off easy - with history, some craft projects, and cosmetology (which Jesse resolutely slept through) on Monday, then moving on to childrearing, carrier counseling, general psychology, and literature Tuesday and Wednesday, then home economics and cooking on Thursdays. Fridays would be reserved for relaxation, private counseling, and preparation for the nighttime, because Friday night was date night.

Sloane was in the middle of a childrearing lesson, and Jesse was pretending not to listen as Sloane taught them how to tie a cloth diaper, when suddenly the door to the room was kicked open and a furious-looking officer came storming onto the scene.

Sloane instantly looked terrified, but stood frozen, a demonstration doll dangling from his left hand still waiting to be pinned up, as the man approached him in a rage. Jesse knew the strike was coming long before Sloane did - he could see the violence in the man's eyes; the anger and absolute loss of control.  
The man made contact.

One hand went broadside against Sloane's face, knocking him down with surprise, and all Jesse could think was how much brighter Sloane's eyes looked when they were startled all wide open like that. Then their leader was on the floor and the man was standing above him, raining down blows and screaming that Sloane was a whore, a lying whore, while Sloane covered his head and did his best to talk him out of it.

Tega started screaming and Jess and Vichy leapt into the mix, each trying (and failing) to separate Sloane from his attacker. Grant went in on Sloane's side, covering the man's body with his own, putting himself in the line of fire, trying to prevent any further hurt.

The man was absolutely insane with ire; he threw Jesse and Vichy off easily, met their punches with two of his own. They at least, however, distracted him enough to allow his anger to abate, and Sloane to get back to his feet.

Honesty and Suleiman ran into the hallway to call for help, but when they came back with two of the escorts and one of the guardian officers, Sloane was standing up and the shouting was gone. Sloane glanced at the guards, once, then turned his attention back to the man who was now standing close to him, his arms around Sloane's waist, speaking to him in a lowered voice.

The guardian looked, annoyed, at Vichy and Jess, disheveled and still growling from the fight.  
"Domestic dispute. Next time, why don't you let them work their problems out on their own instead of jumping in the middle and overreacting?"  
The guard holstered his gun, shaking his head as he walked back into the hallway, the two escorts moving silently in tow. Under his breath, Jesse heard him mutter something about carrier hysterics and this hardly being an emergency.

Jesse wanted to chase him down. Instead, he looked at Vichy, who was equally dumbfounded, and turned to head back over to Sloane, who was still shaking but was quietly introducing the barbarian to the group - as his fiancé. After the man left (kissing Sloane tenderly on the forehead and rubbing a thumb over the bruises just beginning to appear on his face in apology), Sloane explained to them what had happened.

Expressing dissatisfaction with his fiancé, he'd gone to the counselors and requested information on some other potentials, just to explore the possibilities and consider the idea of splitting up. It was meant to be a secret, but apparently his fiancé had found out. Dissolving their association - splitting up - would have meant, of course, that his fiancé's esteem would be diminished. Being given a wife, particularly a fertile one, was a mark of the highest honor. This meant that his fiancé was unwilling to let him go. Which meant that this act he saw as insult and rebellion, had pissed him off royally.  
Which in turn meant that Sloane had to be punished.

"So that," Sloane explained, preparing to turn even this into a lesson for his students, "Is why we must always be very, very mindful of our behavior towards others. Is it right? Is it respectful? These are the two questions we must ask ourselves..." here, he trailed off, staring at something seemingly midair. His eyes, only misty before, were spilling over now, and he was speaking to himself when he said: "We must ask ourselves what we could possibly be doing wrong."


	5. September - Week Three

Jesse had skipped his first doctor's appointment, not being particularly in the mood for being poked and prodded and possibly stared at by twenty interns. However, this meant that he'd been a) scheduled for a psychological reevaluation and b) given a sedative and an emergency evening appointment. When he came to, he was in his bed and there was a note on his pillow with the date of his next appointment circled in red. Jesse hated this damn place.

In the same week, he'd also managed to fail three exams: one in history (feeling that the text they'd been given was summarily inaccurate, Jesse had made his own adjustments), one in childrearing (he had unflinchingly refused to demonstrate proper nursing positions), and the last in cosmetology, simply because he'd slept through the whole damn thing. All in all, he felt, it had been a pretty accomplished week. Ortega and Honesty, on the other hand, had both gotten perfect scores on all of the five exams they'd had that week and so both had been given an extra four hours of free time.

Jesse was lying down in his room when the door opened. He looked up to find Vichy entering skulkily and looking shell-shocked. Jesse glanced at the chronometer; his roommate should be just getting home from his extra private counseling session. What could possibly have happened? Jesse sat up; Vichy had a small piece of paper clutched tightly in his hands, and he was twisting the edge of it into little knots with his fingers.  
"What's wrong?"  
Vichy shook his head, came over to the bed and sat down. Jesse looked again at the paper, recognized it as the official memo stationary from the Matching Office.  
"Nothing's wrong." Vichy answered, weakly, then chewed on his lip for a minute. "Aniston wants our relationship to become exclusive."  
Jesse blinked at him.  
"OK."  
Vichy stared down at the paper in his hands.  
"I don't think I want that." his voice was even softer than usual.

Jesse knew Aniston, or had met him a few times, at least. He seemed like a nice guy, comparatively, but then again, Jesse had never done anything to piss him off so he supposed he didn't really know. You could always tell the nice guys from the rest, Jesse reflected, by how they acted when you had just pissed them off. At any rate, what he definitely did know was that Aniston had been seeing Vichy since the first week Jesse had gotten here. He was a mid-ranking officer, but accomplished in his field, and seemed kind enough, if a little dull. Vichy, however, had seemed enamored of him, at least for the first week and a half.

"So tell him you're not ready."  
Vichy's eyes widened.  
"I can't do that." he shook his head. "It's not - _definitely_ not an option."   
Jesse crooked an eyebrow, feeling sure he was missing something, and propped himself up onto one elbow.  
"It's not an option because....?"  
Vichy frowned, rubbed one hand across his eyes, and collapsed backward on the bed to lie beside Jesse.  
"Do you remember last week? My birthday - Wednesday - when I snuck out?"  
Jesse nodded. Vichy exhaled.  
"I met up with Aniston. He said he wanted to celebrate." Vichy's ears were turning red. "We went to the woods."  
Jesse was sure this story wasn't headed anywhere good.

"And it was fun, and we just talked and then we kinda messed around, but he said it wasn't a big deal, and that everything would be fine and no one would find out and all that stuff. Then this week, he tells me he wants us to talk about engagement. Said it was time to move forward. I said - " Vichy's voice wavered for a moment before finding its footing again, "I said that I'm young. And that I still want to spend some time in the program, and that - " here, there was more of a waver, but Vichy controlled it and took two sharp, shuddering breaths. "I _never_ said anything about others. I _never_ mentioned other potentials. But he... he said that he'd tell everyone else about me. Tell the rest of my potentials about us. Let them know what kind of carrier I was. Tell them we weren't even really together before I'd let him _have_ me. He said he'd go to the counselors about me. He said I'd end up in Rowe House."

  
Vichy swallowed quickly.  
"Then today, I got a note from the counselors, telling me to come to the office. He told them I had been...overeager. He didn't tell them what we did, but he said - " Vichy's voice was wavering. He swallowed again. "They flipped out on me. I have to go to eight extra hours of behavior seminar. If Aniston tells them more... Jesse, I don't know what to do." Vichy shook his head, chewed on the edge of his thumb. "I can't goddamn live like this."


	6. September - Week Four

The week started out decently; class was simple, dinner was nice, and Jesse had passed his psych reevaluation with flying fucking colors. On Tuesday, however, things took a horrible downturn. Sloane showed up to morning seminar half an hour late, which was of no importance to Jesse, who would just as soon not learn how to clear a baby's nose. What was of major importance to Jess, however, was what Sloane had carried in and was now passing around to the group.

He paused when he got to Jesse.  
"I don't want to fight about this, Jesse."  
"Then don't give it to me."  
"Don't you want to at least try it?"  
"Actually, I would rather be dead."

At this, Sloane just made a sound of contempt and threw the piece of cloth in Jesse's face before moving on to the front of the room. Jesse threw it on the floor. 

Ortega looked anxiously between him and Sloane, fearing another fight, then edged over to Jess and picked the natori up from the floor. "Here, Jesse, just hold onto it. You don't have to wear it now." His voice was soft, soothing, and his bright brown eyes were worried, darting across Jesse's face, then back up to Sloane, then back to Jesse. "I'll wear mine for both of us, OK? Here."

Tega offered the now-rumpled piece of cloth to Jesse again, and slowly, he took it. Suleiman watched the scene silently with only distant interest, the most emotion he ever displayed. The rest of the room seemed impassive, focused on their own thoughts. Sloane stood calmly at the front of the group, allowing Ortega to finish coaxing before he began the seminar.

"I'm sure you all know what this is. It's a natori. It's been worn around the world by men for centuries."  
Jesse almost choked on his disbelief.  
"It's a skirt, Sloane. It's an _effing skirt_."

The words came out without him even really meaning to speak them. Sloane sighed in a mixture of pity and annoyance and went on speaking.

"It is a _highly versatile_ garment. It is a highly respectable garment." here, a scathing look at Jesse as if daring him to challenge, "And it is a highly attractive garment. Now, I'm giving these to you today because you're all going to start wearing them. I'm not saying that you've got to wear this all the time - it's not a uniform, after all - but I wouldn't mind seeing you make it a common factor in your wardrobe choices."

Sloane then spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating various ways to wrap a natori, and the next hour after that encouraging and helping the group to try theirs on. Jesse remained where he was, ignoring Sloane's subtle threats and Ortega's cajoling. Vichy wrapped his simply and wandered over to sit next to Jesse on the couch. As expected, he looked beautifully andro in it - he'd wrapped it perfectly, and it came down to his knees, tight enough to flatter but also allow for movement. In it, he looked almost too young to be a carrier - he was all legs and muscle and fresh-faced prettiness. He pressed his knees together when he sat, and Jesse deliberately spread his legs wider.

They spent the rest of the morning just hanging around - Grant, Honesty, and Ortega joining Sloane in giddily tying and retying their natoris. Suleiman sat nearby, wearing his like a lava-lava, and watching the rest with mild interest. Sai put his on lazily and stretched out in the window seat to sleep. Eventually Ortega took notice of Jesse's sulking and tried again to him in their fun, but a few words in pidgin from Suleiman stopped him and, biting his lip, he went away to rejoin Sloane and the rest.

Vichy glanced sidelong at his roommate.  
"You can't resist forever, Jesse."  
Jesse looked back at his friend, eyes strayed pointedly down to his left hand.  
"Mmm." he responded, noncommittally, and Vichy balled his hand into a fist, embarrassed.  
"At least I'm trying, Jesse." he paused, then added, "I don't know what else I can do." and got up to go over to Sloane.


	7. October 3

He was in the group supervisor's office. Again.  
"You're in my office, Jesse. Again."

 _No shit._  
Jesse looked over at the wall, began counting the swirls in the patterning.  
"Focus, Jesse. This isn't a game."  
Jesse looked back over at him.  
"You're really pushing your luck here."  
Jesse felt his face get hot.  
" _I'm_ pushing _my_ luck." he repeated, wanting to say more but not yet daring.

The man frowned, pushed his rolled shirtsleeves farther up his arms, wiped at his brow with a damp cloth he had in his hand. Jesse sympathized with him on this matter, because since the Second Catastrophe, Octobers had gotten hotter than ever. Luckily, carrier dress codes were not so strict; Jesse was coolly dressed in a thin t-shirt and linen pants, but he remembered how hot uniform shirtsleeves were.

The man shifted to the left, putting himself in the path of the small desktop fan that was whirring in front of his face.  
"Jesse, I know you don't take this seriously. That's what I'm here for."  
Jesse interrupted him there.  
"On the contrary, sir. I do take this seriously. Very much so. With as many of my rights as I've had taken away, it would be very difficult not to take this as seriously as I possibly can."

The man ignored this, exhaled, and flipped open the file he had sitting on his desk.  
"This was potential number...what, ten, Jesse?"  
"Eleven."  
This earned him a glare.  
"Eleven. I'm shocked that they keep coming back."  
"Actually, none of them have ever been back." Jesse replied jovially.  
The man ground his jaw.  
"I'm shocked," he corrected, "that you keep getting new ones. Carriers twice your age haven't had that many."  
"Carriers twice my age usually kill themselves."

Now the man was angry, leaning forward, ready to jump out of his chair and strangle the ex-officer before him.  
"That's a myth, Jesse, a goddamn lie and you know it. Don't bring your damn resistance propaganda into my office. Sloane may take that shit from you, but I won't do it. You can shape up or you can ship the fuck out to Rowe House. Do you understand me?"  
Jesse was silent.  
"Do you fucking understand me, Carrier Paik?"  
"Yes."  
"Yes, WHAT?"  
"Yes, sir."  
The man leaned back in his seat.  
"I should make you fucking scream it."

Jesse tightened at the threat, felt that frightening powerless feeling hit him again full force. The man fanned himself with Jess's file.  
"Now. If we could possibly discuss your behavior."

 

Vichy met him afterwards in the hallway.  
"What'd he say?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"Same thing he says every time. Shape up or ship out."  
Vichy nodded, fell into a quick pace next to Jesse.  
"Are you OK?"  
Jesse nodded, cracked a half-smile for Vichy's benefit, and kept walking.  
"Is Aniston coming to get you today?"  
Vichy smiled anxiously, gave a little shrug.  
"Yeah...I'm gonna go get ready. I just wanted to make sure you..." he trailed off, leaving his meaning dangling in the air. Jesse softened his voice.  
"I'm OK, Vich."  
They walked on in silence a moment more before Vichy spoke again.  
"I just don't to see you get hurt."  
Jesse laughed mirthlessly.  
"That makes two of us."


	8. October 6

**Friday**

Sloane had made the announcement at lunch that there would be a social night coming up in the next week, which would be fun and also mandatory. He also announced that he would be unavailable the next night - he would be going out with Clint and some old friend of his who was in town on assignment.

Everyone wished him a good time and split to go eat in their regular places - Sai, with a group he'd befriended from B bloc; Grant and Honesty with a bunch of obnoxiously pretty carriers who seemed to be constantly brushing their hair; Suleiman with a small group of mestizos that always formed in the lunchroom, and Vichy with Jesse. Ortega typically split his time between Vichy & Jess and Suleiman's group. Sloane mostly ate alone.

"Tega."  
Sloane called him as he was halfway to Jesse's table. He turned, interested, to greet him.  
"Hey; did you need something?"  
Sloane glanced around, looking sheepish.  
"Um, sort of. A little favor. Clint's friend, who's coming tomorrow night? Well, we were all going to go for a drive, and Clint thought I should maybe try to bring a fourth."  
He looked meaningfully at Tega.  
"Oh. Oh! Um, sure." Ortega grinned a little, shifted his tray to his hip. "Any excuse to get off campus, right? And I haven't been for a drive in forever...yeah, I guess it'd be alright."  
Sloane smiled with relief.  
"Great. Just come by my room a little after twenty-one - Clint's going to get here about twenty-two hundred, so we can get on the road and be at a good spot around midnight - it's a full moon, so it'll be really pretty in the mountains."  
Ortega nodded.  
"See you then."

~

"I'm telling you, James, you're really going to like this one. Young, dark haired, big bright eyes, kinda shy - he's totally your type."  
James kicked back in the chair he was sitting in, balanced his feet on his friend's desk.  
"Oh yeah? What's his name?"  
"Ortega. He's mestizo."  
"How tall's he?"  
"Just 5'7". I know you don't like tall."  
James made a grunt of appreciation.  
"Is he passable in a natori?"  
"Fucking delicious."  
"I'm sold."

He pushed back from Clint's desk and set his feet back down onto the ground.  
"So when can I meet him?"  
"I told Sloane to get him out tomorrow night. He's unclaimed, but bear in mind that he may need some...convincing."  
James tilted his head in acknowledgement.  
"They all do. I can be very persuasive."  
The two shared a grin.

"Well, Sloane's going to sign him out, then I'll pick up Sloane and the kid and we'll come get you."  
"Sounds like a plan."  
James got to his feet, stretching brawny shoulders and rubbing one hand over his buzzed hair.  
"So as of tomorrow night, I'll be engaged."  
Clint shrugged.  
"If you do it right."  
"Oh, believe me," James smiled, "I'll do it right."


	9. October 7

Tega poked his head around the corner into Sloane's room, his black curls shaking loose around his face.

"Hey! Good, you're here."  
Sloane was packing things into a bag and he quickly finished before gesturing Ortega to come in. He looked relieved, which puzzled Tega.  
"Here I am. Am I late?" he asked, checking the clock again.  
Sloane shook his head, busy counting something on his fingers.  
"No, but it's like Clint says - five minutes early is on time!" Ortega quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing as Sloane wrapped up whatever he'd been doing, then turned to Ortega, sizing him up. 

The younger carrier had chosen a casual outfit for the evening - jeans and a tight white t-shirt which contrasted nicely with his golden-brown skin. His hair was loose and his curls shone, and his fingernails were freshly manicured.  
Sloane pursed his lips a bit.  
"Are you comfortable in those jeans? It's pretty warm out this evening - maybe you should wear a natori."  
Tega shrugged.  
"I think I'll be alright. It'll be night soon, so it'll cool off pretty quick."  
Sloane shrugged as if he really couldn't care less, but still thought Ortega was making a terrible mistake.  
"Well, I'm going to wear one. I thought you might just want something a little more date-appropriate, that's all."  
Ortega furrowed his brow and looked worried.  
"This isn't appropriate?"  
Sloane eyed him for a moment, seeming to decide something. He smiled critically at his charge.  
"No, I'm sure it'll be fine."

Ten minutes later, Sloane walked them out to the main exit. He signed himself and Ortega out, marked 'no escort,' gave his authorization code, and led the younger man down the path towards the eastern parking lot. Ortega trotted a few paces behind him.

"We're awfully early, aren't we?"  
Sloane shrugged.  
"He'll be there. And I'd rather be early than late."  
Ortega caught up to Sloane, fell into step beside him. They passed a moment in silence before Ortega spoke.  
"You don't have to stay with him, you know."  
Sloane drew in a breath, shrugged it off.  
"I know that. I want to stay with him. Clint loves me, and now is not the time, Ortega."

Ortega shook his head, wanting to say something more, but by then they were rounding the corner and he could see Clint leaning on the side of the gray jeep. Another man was seated in the back and Ortega assumed that must be James.

Clint grinned at Sloane as he approached and held out his arms for a hug. Sloane complied, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned to introduce Ortega.  
"You remember Tega."  
Clint smiled wide, took his hand to shake it.  
"Of course. Ortega. You're one of Sloane's boys. Nice to see you again."

Ortega rankled a bit at being called a boy, but the title was so common, he'd almost grown used to it. The other man, who had been calmly watching the scene, hoisted himself and climbed out of the back seat, extending a hand to Ortega. He was large, Tega immediately noted, taller even than Clint, who had at least half a foot on Tega to begin with, and built brawlick. He suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to do this, but Sloane seemed to be watching him from the protective circle of Clint's arms, so he tucked a wayward curl behind his ear, swallowed his shyness, and reached out a hand to the unfamiliar man.

"I'm James."  
"Ortega."  
James shook his hand gently, Tega noticed, almost as if he were afraid he might break the carrier.  
"Nice to meet you, Ortega."

The guy was not unhandsome; he had refined features and a strong jaw, confident smile and deep, mellow voice. His eyes were blue. He was actually rather attractive. Ortega suddenly found it very hard to meet his gaze, so he focused on the floor instead.

"What's this?" the man teased, moving to try to meet Ortega's eyes. "Shy?"  
Ortega began to color, shook his head. James grinned, leaned over to stage whisper in Tega's ear. "Must think I'm cute, then."  
Ortega flushed red, and the man laughed.  
"Come on, let's get out of here."  
Clint was looking somewhat anxiously at his watch.  
"We should get a move on before nightfall."  
James agreed, and Sloane let himself into the passenger's side seat in the front, leaving James and Ortega to take the back.  
"Let's hit the road."

 

James wasn't so bad, Ortega reflected. He had an easygoing sense of humor, and he was confident without being cocky, kind without being overbearing. Over the rushing wind, he'd explained the parts of the city to Ortega as they passed - what each building was for, how long it had been there, how much it had withstood. As they cut through the city, he pointed out the places where he had grown up, and Ortega teased him about having never really left home. James laughed.  
"Well, I guess I never really had a good reason."

He explained to Ortega that he had traveled a lot as a young man, and that as the only survivor of his siblings (all female), his father had doted on him after the plague. Ortega told him about his home, far south and how green the mountains were in the daytime. He told him about how he'd come to move to the north, and how much he missed his grandparents (who had raised him) and his hometown. At some point during the ride, James' hand found its way onto Ortega's leg, and he shifted away a little, which seemed to surprise James - only for a second though, before his characteristic good nature took over and he smiled again. When Tega looked up, he saw Sloane watching him in the mirror, a look of consternation on his face.

 

Clint rounded a curve and pulled the jeep to a slow stop by a semi-hidden open space some distance from a break in the tree line. He put it into park on a dirt patch by the clearing, got out and indicated James do the same. Sloane looked up at him for instruction. Clint leaned over the side of the jeep, looking steadily at Sloane.  
"You know where we are?" Sloane nodded. "Then you know to stay in the jeep."

James turned to Ortega, his voice casual and relaxed.  
"We're just going to go check out the site, make sure it's secure. Be back in just a minute."  
Clint patted Sloane's face, then he and James shouldered a pair of backpacks and hopped out, began marking paces off until they disappeared into the dark.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Sloane turned to Ortega.  
"You like him?" he whispered. Tega shrugged, but smiled.  
"He's nice."  
"Nice?" Sloane raised an eyebrow.  
"He kissed me when we stopped to buy drinks. It was OK." Sloane laughed.  
"Only OK?"  
Ortega was turning red again.  
"Well, he keeps touching me."  
Sloane gave Ortega a kind, if slightly indulgent, look.  
"He likes you."  
Ortega shrugged, stared off into the distance.  
"Yeah..." Tega shifted in his seat. "Sloane, I need a minute." he said suddenly, eyeing a welcoming-looking clump of trees. "I think it was the wine...I'll just be right back."  
"No!" Sloane practically leapt to keep him from moving, stopping him with a hand on the door. "No, Clint said to stay in the jeep."  
Ortega frowned.  
"OK...but this is kind of an urgent situation."  
Sloane turned to look him in the eye.  
"Do **not** get out of the jeep, Ortega."

Before Ortega could inquire further, there were footsteps by the path and then Clint and James reappeared.  
"Looks good. We'll go through this way."

They pulled the car through a narrow opening up into the clearing itself, and now Ortega could see that it overlooked the entire valley; a thousand little lights were flickering on and off in the distance, and he realized how far he'd come. He'd never in his life been this far away or this high up. Ortega was transfixed by the sight, and just stared out over the break for a few long moments. Sloane and Clint were cuddling together in the front seat, and James was carefully watching his reaction.

Suddenly his need reoccurred to him.  
"Um, Sloane, I really need that break." he said anxiously. Sloane sat up, turned to Clint.  
"Somebody should take him to the tree line."  
Clint locked eyes with James in the rearview mirror.  
"I'll take him." James looked over at Ortega, who was looking even more anxious, and smiled. "Come on, I'll take you by those trees over there."  
Ortega frowned.  
"I can go alone."  
"It's safer," Clint answered, "if you let James go with you."  
Ortega acquiesced.

James climbed out, went around to Tega's side to let him out, and took his hand. Clint spoke to James.  
"I'm going to park the jeep a little farther over, OK?"  
James nodded, turned his attention back to Tega.  
"Follow ten steps behind me, OK?"  
Ortega was confused, but nodded and slipped out of the car and they made their way off into the dark.

Clint shut off the jeep's lights. Sloane was biting his lip, hard. Clint looked at him.  
"Well? Pack it up. We've only got a minute."  
Sloane glanced at Clint, his eyes damp and face conveying real worry.  
"I'm not sure if - "  
"For fuck's sake, Sloane, you've been so good tonight and now you want to go and do this shit. Pack the goddamn bag before I give you something to be sure about."  
Clint's voice was calm in the way that Sloane knew to be dangerous. He reached into the backseat, pulled out James' backpack and began to transfer items from the bag he'd packed into it. A small blanket went first, then a bottle of water, lube, a first aid kit, a small rough cloth, and another bottle of wine. Clint watched him.  
"Anything else they'll need?"  
Sloane shook his head, zipped the bag up and leaned over to drop it some distance from the side of the jeep.  
"Then let's go."  
With that, Clint pulled off, driving the jeep back out the way they had come.

~

James led Tega off a short distance into the trees, seeming to pace out a spot for him before turning to head back.  
"This is a tricky patch of wood, Ortega, so you need to come back _exactly_ the way we walked. Can you do that, or should I wait for you?"  
Ortega shook his head.  
"I can do it. I'll be right there."

Clint headed back out into the clearing. Ortega relieved himself by a friendly tree, then turned 180 degrees and retreated the exact path he'd taken in. In the clearing, James was waiting for him. The car was gone. Confusion hit first, then fear was suddenly in his throat, clawing its way up. This didn't feel right. It felt too sudden and too dark and too scary.

"Where's Sloane?" he tried not to sound too hysterical.  
James was standing next to a blanket that had been laid out on the ground, staring up at the night sky. Upon hearing his voice, he turned and looked evenly at Ortega. The moon was bright on him.  
"Sloane went with Clint."  
Ortega stopped walking where he was, refusing to come any closer.  
"Where did they go?"  
James had both hands in his pockets, and he continued to stare evenly at his carrier.  
"That doesn't really matter, does it, Ortega?"

Ortega didn't like this one bit, but he wasn't exactly sure what to do. James began to walk towards him. He took two steps back. James stopped.  
"Do you know where you are, Ortega?"  
Tega shook his head.  
"You are in a minefield, Ortega."  
Cold fear rushed through his veins.  
"Do you know where you can walk? I do. Please do not attempt to run."

Tega was breathing hard now, and heavy, almost panting with fright.  
"I want to go home." he blurted.  
James nodded, smiled a soothing kind of smile, reached out one hand to Ortega.  
"You will, sweetheart. But first, we have to take care of some things."  
Ortega shifted his weight where he was, fought the urge to run, imagined himself blown apart or maimed or dead in a hundred different ways.  
"What things?" his voice sounded strained, desperate.

Understanding was so sharp and real within him that he wondered for a minute if this was just a dream. James was looking at him again, his gaze even but now shifting towards something more like feral. He was palming his cock through his jeans with one hand, taking two more steps towards Ortega. Tega did not move.

"Do you know what I want, Ortega?"  
Tega sucked in a dry breath, nodded. He was shaking. He wished James would stop saying his name. He came two steps closer.  
"And are you going to fight me, Ortega?"  
Tega didn't respond, only stood his ground.  
"I would like it very much," James said, closing the distance between them, "if you did not fight me, Ortega."

Then he was there, he was on him, his breath hot on Ortega's neck in the cool night air, and the moon was behind him now, hiding his face, and Tega didn't know what to do, whether to cry or scream or beg him not to do this. Sloane was gone - how could Sloane leave him? Just when he needed him the most? And it was dark and the woods around him were steeped in death and maybe he could just get this over with quickly, and he knew this was going to be his first time - does it hurt? How much? And why couldn't he just go home, and what the hell was he supposed to do now?

In the end, he did nothing, only let James kiss him, let him slide one hand down to fondle his dick through the denim, lead him back over to the blanket. James still spoke to him in that easy, reassuring voice, telling him that it was going to be OK, and he shouldn't be scared, and that James was going to take good care of him, now and forever.

 

Then he was on his back on a blanket in the middle of the clearing in the middle of the minefield, another blanket draped over his bare legs, and he could hear James undressing. For a moment, he almost missed his presence, his weight, and then James was next to him, under the blanket, kissing him again. He tried to hold it together, tried to stay calm. James' hands were wandering his body, teasing two brown nipples, then down, across his stomach, dipping a finger into his bellybutton, then lower, across his shaved regions to palm his limp dick, then, losing interest in that, pushing his legs apart and sliding two fingers behind it to press at his entrance, which was shamefully damp and invitingly warm. James' breath caught at this, and he pressed harder, attempting to force his way in. Ortega squirmed, tried to pull away from the discomfort, but James restrained him with one hand on his hip, grip firm to the point of bruising.

Ortega tried to remember what they'd been taught in class, tried to relax. Took two shaky breaths which James read as excitement. He sat back on his knees, the blanket pooling around his hips, letting Ortega see his casually erect cock - impressive in length more than width - and leaned over to where his black backpack lay on the ground next to the blankets. He retrieved something from it, a tube, squirted some on his fingers and stuck them unceremoniously into Ortega, who jumped.

"Easy. I'm sorry. I know it's cold."

The bizarre assurance put Ortega even closer to the edge. Just as bizarrely, he began speaking to Ortega as he fingered him, his thick digits pressing hard against Tega's walls.

"Do you understand what's happening here, Ortega?"  
Ortega was busy trying to breathe and so only shook his head no.  
"We're going to have sex, sweetheart, and I'm going to try and get you pregnant."  
Ortega's eyes widened.  
"Do you understand why I'm doing that, Ortega?"

More head shaking, only now he could focus a little better because James pulled his fingers out, giving him a brief respite from the discomfort.

"Because I want to have you. I want to keep you. And there's simply no other way."  
Tega looked at James with a mixture of confusion and abject fear. He was lubing his dick now.  
"You see, if I were to wait for you, register for you, and court you, sweetheart, then I might get line-jumped by one of these corrupt top-rank bastards. I'm not going to let that happen. So just think of this as a little shortcut, angel, on the road to a life of happiness."

Ortega suddenly wanted to throw up. He couldn't do this. Wouldn't do it. Wasn't going to. He got one good punch in. He'd aimed for the balls, but James anticipated and caught it on the hip instead, close enough to give him pause but not dead on enough to stop him completely. In the half second of space, Ortega flipped onto his stomach, began to wiggle away, thought he was going to make it, when suddenly strong hands were dragging him back, flipping him back over, and he had a brief thought of acceptance just before the elbow caught him in the temple. The world spun and then another hand was on his throat, squeezing tight, choking off the blood supply and the crisp, cold mountain air.

"I asked you," James said simply, "Not to fight me, Ortega."

Then he was inside of him, his neck was free, and Ortega cried out abruptly with the pain - there was no other word for it; this was true, unadulterated pain. The lube eased his entry, but the facts of life stayed the same, and Ortega had never done this before, never been touched there but by doctors who were very careful and very gentle and now this was happening and it was fast and it was hard and it just fucking hurt.

He didn't want to look weak, but he couldn't stop the tears this time. James was above him, his arms making a cage around Ortega's shoulders and head, his muscles flexing as he thrust. Tega cried out again, put both hands on his hips, begged him to just take it slow, please, stop for just a second, I just need a minute, please. James complied, paused half-buried inside him, stroked his face, wiped tears, let Ortega try to manage him. In a minute, the haze cleared and the pain eased a little, but flared again when James moved, sliding his dick out of Ortega so that just the head stayed buried. He thrust in again and it burned like fire and Tega knew that he couldn't take this. He covered his eyes with his hand, cleared away the tears, tried to look at the moon, to pick something out to remember his first time pleasantly by. James lifted his legs, hiking them higher around his waist. It relieved some pressure but increased others. The pain continued. Ortega touched James' chest.

"Finish, please. Can you please just finish?" he begged.

James looked at him for a second, nodded, and closed his eyes, single-mindedly focusing on getting off inside his mate. As he got closer, his thrusts got deeper, until Ortega could feel him slamming against the back of his canal, striking so hard he was sure he'd bruise him inside. Abruptly, he stopped, holding still, and momentarily Ortega wasn't sure what had happened, and then he felt a sudden damp rush inside of him and realized that James had cum. The man jerked a few more times inside of his carrier, smiled self-satisfactorily, and hung his head, breathing hard. Ortega pushed at his chest to remind him and he pulled out, still panting, chest glistening with sweat.

Ortega wanted to touch himself, to be sure he was OK because it still burned, but he was too scared and too much was running through his mind. He heard water, and when he looked up, James was pouring it from a bottle over a piece of cloth. He tried to sit up, but James stopped him with one hand.

"No. Lay back down. In fact..." he took Ortega's legs, bent them at the knees, so that his ass was tilted off the ground. "Stay. Like that."

Ortega realized what he was doing, shook with the knowledge, but didn't dare move. James took the cloth, wiped first Ortega, then himself. Tega shivered and James helped him put his shirt and underwear back on before getting up to dress himself. Ortega was crying again, a bit more actively now, and shaking very badly. James stroked his head, and after a few minutes, drew him up into his arms, rubbed his back.

"I know. I know this is hard. But you'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now come on, enough crying. You don't want Sloane to see you like this, do you?"  
Ortega just went on shaking, but the sobs subsided.  
"Can I go home now?"  
James reached for his backpack again, took out a walkie talkie, turned it on.  
"Clint," he said, packing up the water, cloth, lube, and blanket, "I'm done."

~

Sloane rode in the backseat with him as they left. Ortega wouldn't meet his eyes, just stared out of the window as they drove away. Sloane tried to take his hand, but Tega jerked it away. In the front seat, Clint and James were talking.

"Did you make him lay like I told you?" Clint demanded, still irritated by his argument with Sloane.  
James nodded.  
"Hope it took. I only fucked him once, though. Think I should go again?"

Ortega looked up at this, his breath quickening. Sloane noticed and cut in.  
"It's his first time. You can't take him twice in one day - you could hurt him."  
Clint looked sharply up into the rearview mirror, locked eyes with Sloane. They communicated silently for a moment, then Clint decided.  
"Sloane's right, man. You'll hurt him. Leave him alone for now."  
Ortega breathed a silent sigh of relief, but still waited on edge. Sloane went on.  
"Maybe you can try again tomorrow, if Ortega feels up to it."  
Ortega looked sharply at Sloane. Clint glared at him in the rearview mirror.  
"He will try again tomorrow, whether Ortega feels up to it or not."

Clint answered,


	10. October 8

The next place they drove was the hospital, and at first, Ortega felt some brief glimmer of hope. It was false.

The room felt tiny. Too tiny. Across the desk from him, a young woman was busily filling out the top paper in a stack of forms. She looked up at Ortega, took in the mussed hair and miserable eyes.  
"Age?"  
His voice didn't seem to want to work. It came out a croak. He tried again.  
"Ah, 19."  
"Height?"  
"5'7"."  
"Weight?"  
"152."

She flipped through the file, initialing and penciling in various boxes. When she got to a stapled bright yellow page, she stopped. She stared for a moment, read over it again, then paused in her note taking and glanced anxiously up at Tega. Her pencil flapped between two fingers, tapping a nervous beat on the desk. She willfully stopped it, squeezed it in one fist.

"Ortega, I have to ask you some questions now, and - " she cut herself off, glanced towards a far wall. "I...I have to ask: did you plan this, Ortega?"

Horror, then fear, then rage crossed his face. He'd already fought and lost tonight; all he wanted was to go home and feel defeated in the privacy of his room. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"Did I plan this? You think I _planned_ this? You think I planned to get taken out into a minefield and raped?"  
Her eyes shifted, joined him in his misery. She shook her head.  
"No, Ortega, please. It's just -" she looked uncomfortable, then worried. "Ortega, this all happened at a very...opportune time. They took a sample at check-in a few minutes ago, and the bloodwork shows you at peak fertility."  
Sloane.  
It had to be.  
It was the only way. It was Sloane who kept track of their cycles and medical histories. It was Sloane who would be the only one who knew. It was Sloane who had betrayed him. He just hadn't realized before how deeply.  
"...the likelihood of conception..." the woman was still speaking, Tega realized, fading back into the room from his nightmares, "...is high."

Ortega stared blankly across the table at her. He couldn't make the words make sense.

"The other party involved, Officer James Irvine, has testified that you two have an unregistered but pre-existing relationship."  
"No! That's not true!"

Ortega was desperate, frightened. In his stomach, he could feel the world tilting and his footholds slipping away. What if nobody believed him? What if nobody cared? The woman gripped her pencil longways in two hands, couldn't seem to meet Ortega's eyes.

"Your peer leader, Sloane, and Sloane's fiancé, Officer Clinton Hamilton, have also attested to that fact."  
Ortega felt like throwing up.  
"Officer Irvine, as I'm sure you know, has claimed possession, both of you and any possible child."

The dam broke and water ran; Ortega started to cry. Sincere, gut-felt, thought-through, miserable tears and in between, all he could say was that it wasn't fair. It wasn't true and it wasn't right and it wasn't fucking fair. The woman reached out one hand to take his in her own.

"Ortega." she said, her voice a cross between solemn and stern, "We have to keep talking." he looked up at her. She took a deep breath. "The doctors see no legitimate reason to keep you in our care."  
Tega's heart was pounding.  
"But I - I didn't even get an exam! They said, at the Centre, that if something like this happens, we're supposed to get an exam, and now - now, you're saying this..."  
"This," she said, as gently as she possibly could, "is being treated as an act of consensual engagement."

There was a lull, like the moment in a car accident just before the impact, and in it, he was floating and weightless, soft and empty with the sound of his condemnation. Then, in a sudden, violent movement, the collection of death warrants and blue eyes that passed through his mind reconvened in an explosion of yellow and white sharp color, as the file the woman had been reading flew off the side of the desk and scattered across the floor. There was another pause, and the woman made meaningful eye contact with Ortega before kneeling down to slowly collect them. From the floor, head bowed and half-hidden behind the massive desk, she began to whisper.

"Ortega, I can't say a lot right now, because they are watching me, and they are watching you. But I believe you, Tega, I do. And I can't make this different for you, and I can't make this different for me. But the one promise I can offer you is that I will never stop trying to make it different."

It came very suddenly - like a wave, this feeling of defeat - and he felt like he was drowning. Flailing. In too deep. There was no swimming back to shore. James was waiting outside of the door for him. The web had already been spun.

The woman was back up at her desk, looking at him sympathetically now, her hands clasped together in a prim bun on the burnt brown desk. Her eyes were gray. In another life, he probably would have found her beautiful.

~:~

The sky was still dark when they released him into James' care, under Sloane's direct supervision. James got six days' leave and shook hands with the military director of the Carrier Emergency Health Ward - a very dear friend of his father's - who signed the release papers and wished them well.

Halfway down the broken-asphalted drive, Clint suggested they go back into the mountains; home would be too distracting for a newly initiated carrier and anyway he hadn't had any time alone with Sloane lately. Sloane shifted his hand closer to Tega's on the black leather seat and Tega stared at it for a moment. Sloane had always seemed so much bigger than him; days of gazing up in classtime and lectures must have given that impression. In the grey early dawn, they were very much the same. Ortega laid his hand flat and Sloane's came up even; his fingers were thicker - Sloane's build was not quite so slight as Tega's - but still very much the same. Ortega wondered what Sloane's first time had been like.

In the front seat, Clint was still talking. Sloane cleared his throat and spoke up, reasoned that he was due back to the Centre at least in time for chapel or else his group would worry. Clint glanced into the backseat and out loud wondered if he shouldn't just get Sloane pregnant already and not have to hear about his job anymore.  
Sloane shut his mouth. Ortega did not speak. They drove through daybreak. James bought him a teddy bear and a change of clothes on the way home.


	11. October 9

Ortega woke up with James already inside of him and thrusting lazily, his thighs slapping Ortega's on every move. Tega started immediately and tried to wrench himself away, but James held him fast with one hand and laid his forearm heavily across his throat. His thrusts sped up, and unceremoniously, he came. Ortega felt sick. The pressure on his throat increased, briefly, then eased as James rolled onto his back beside him, groaning quietly.

Tega blinked his eyes rapidly. His mouth felt like cotton and his vision was foggy. He wasn't in his room. He'd been drugged. He couldn't remember anything after the car ride. Remembered the rape, remembered the hospital, remembered getting into the Jeep, remembered begging to go back home. Remembered that his head had hurt. Sloane had offered him some of his water. Sloane's water. Thinking of Sloane made Ortega's heart ache; not very long ago, he had believed they were friends. Tega sat up, looked around.

"Where am I?"  
James was pulling the sheets up over his head.  
"This," he replied, "Is my family's home."

~:~

Ortega discovered, upon looking out from one of the windows in the kitchen, that they were in the middle of nowhere. Or at least, nowhere that he knew. Green mountains stretched out as far as the eye could see in any direction. He tugged downward on James' uniform shirt, which he had been given to wear temporarily (his own clothes, old and new, were being washed) and it seemed perilously short. He was sure his fiancé appreciated how much it left exposed. Fiancé.

He looked out of the window again; from here, he had no view of the base, no view of the Centre, no view of his home. His hands shook. It was all over. There wasn't any getting out of this. There had been too many of them - too many against him, too many to avoid. Even Sloane...he stopped this train of thought as a noise behind him made him jump. He turned to find an officer of about 60 staring evenly at him from the other side of the table. Tega's heart sped up.

"Hello."

The man blinked at him, obviously waiting for a reply. Ortega didn't offer one, just watched him for a moment, trying to gauge his reaction. He had no idea that anyone else lived here, let alone who, or when they would come around, or if they knew who he was and what had happened, and whether they'd be angry to find him half-dressed in their kitchen. He decided he could at least say hello.

"Hola." he half-whispered, tugging down on the shirt again.

The man's gaze drifted with interest down his body, lingered at the hem where bare thigh began to show, examined slim legs and narrow feet and then took a wandering path back up to his eyes. Ortega looked away, his face turning red. He felt invaded. Without breaking his gaze, the man shouted.  
"James!"

Presently, James appeared, poking his head around the doorway, his look of concern turning quickly to a smile at seeing Ortega there. The man indicated him with one hand.  
"This," James said, fully entering the room and approaching the now-nervous carrier, "is Ortega."

The older man narrowed his eyes at both of them, looking annoyed. Picking up immediately on the subtle tension, Ortega saw an  
in and figured perhaps a chance of escape lay with appealing to this mystery man, who appeared to hold a position of some authority within the household.

"Please, help me! My name is Ortega Nq'taki Saloman de Garindes; I'm a carrier in bloc A of the Southern Star Carrier Education Centre. My registration number is 4C6BA81. I'm not supposed to be here; he's kidnapped me and drugged me and - "

The blow caught him right on his already-bruised temple, and stars danced in front of his eyes. He hadn't been expecting that one. James was close to him, suddenly, cradling his head and swearing at the other officer.

"What the hell was that for?!"  
The older man calmly took a sip of the syrupy-looking whiskey drink he'd poured in the meantime.  
"He talks too much." The man eyed him one more time. "What is he? A mestizo?"

There was condescension in the last word and Ortega wanted to rip his throat out for speaking the name of his people in that way. Apparently James, who was busy at the freezer, collecting ice in a dishcloth, also took offense.

"Watch your goddamn tone when you speak about my wife, and keep your goddamn hands to yourself."  
The stranger took another sip, savoring it against his gums.  
"This is still my house, James." he said, slowly, drawing out the younger man's name.  
"Even if I am only here for a visit." Ortega inhaled sharply; was this man James' father?  
"You make an excellent point." James said tightly, moving away from the freezer and bringing the makeshift icepack up to Ortega's face. "Here's another: why don't we cut this trip short, skip the next one altogether, and I'll see you in your grave?"  
The man ignored this in favor of sipping his whiskey and leering at Ortega.  
"And anyway, don't get wise with me about your little breeder; you owe him to me, remember."

Ortega watched James' reaction carefully. That seemed to have struck a nerve - he colored a bit, then his jaw flexed as he touched the ice again softly to Ortega's head.

"I don't owe you anything. I had it worked out on my own."  
"You had it half-assed, as usual."  
James was gritting his teeth, but still nursing Ortega's bruise gently. He set the cloth into Tega's hand and kissed his forehead. The older man scoffed.  
"You're going to ruin him."  
James ignored him, went to the sink. The officer finished his glass.  
"You've got to be quick with his discipline - mestizo are stubborn as mules." there was a tense pause before the man added, gleefully, "And about as fertile."  
Ortega's eyes spat fire, but before he could speak, James did. He turned, leaned casually against the counter, and his voice was calm, tone almost jesting, when he spoke.  
"And that's something you'd know about, isn't it, John? Infertility?"

The old officer's face changed completely - he went pale, then a little red, then he swore under his breath at James and threw the glass he'd been drinking from into the sink. It split and shattered against the metal basin. Ortega jumped back and James smiled in self-satisfaction as the old man stormed bitterly from the room. Ortega silently watched him go; James gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Why don't you get back to bed? You need your rest. I'll bring you some breakfast."  
Ortega shook his head reflexively. No more bed. James frowned, furrowed his brow.  
"Ortega. Don't be stubborn. Don't prove him right. Go."

Ortega glanced one more time out the window and turned his back to go up the steps.


	12. October 12

Sloane had returned on Sunday to the Centre; on behalf of James, he and Clint had completed all the necessary paperwork to shift Ortega's registration, gone to one or two closed-door meetings, and spoken briefly with a pre-marriage counselor before Clint headed back to the base and Sloane rejoined his crew.  
Everyone asked about Ortega. Sloane told them nothing at all - only that he was away but OK - until Thursday morning, when Tega arrived during cooking class, carrying a knapsack and a small teddy bear.  
Sloane looked up, assessed the situation - Ortega seemed clean enough, his hair shiny and brushed, any bruises faded. He wasn't smiling, but the abject misery was also gone. Sloane put down his pot, turned down the stove he was working on, and went over to him. Ortega looked away, then back up. His face was a mixture of desperation and need.  
"Don't worry." Sloane said, rubbing his shoulder, "I'll tell them."

He led Tega to the front of the room, where the class immediately began celebrating his return in loud voices.  
"Hey! Look who's back!"  
Everyone was excited, but Suleiman smiled widest of all. Ortega grinned, but couldn't seem to meet their eyes. They sensed the change immediately. Sloane held up a hand for quiet and waited patiently for the noise to settle.

"Ortega has been through a lot of changes over these past few days," he said, suppressing a smile, "And all of them are very good, but also very tiring. So let's make sure to give him a little room for the rest of the week. Ortega? Would you like to tell them the good news?"

Ortega glanced out at his classmates. Seven sickeningly hopeful and curious faces looked back at him. He shook his head. Sloane rubbed his shoulder again.  
"Ortega's getting married."  
The room was silent.  
"Show them your ring, Ortega."  
Tega obediently held up one hand. The silence lengthened. The group members looked at Sloane.  
"Whoa." Jesse finally said.  
"And!" Sloane went on, still jubilant, "He's pregnant."

~

When Sloane went to answer a summons in the hallway, they gathered around Ortega to gape and ask questions. Only Suleiman stayed where he was, cooking quietly and only occasionally casting gentle looks over at his young compatriot.

"Who is it?" Vichy asked.  
"His name's James, um, Irvine."  
"When did this happen?" Grant was next.  
"Um, after we went out Friday night...I guess he really liked me, because -" Ortega swallowed; he could hear his own voice breaking. "Um, he wanted to see me again and then we spent the weekend together and so now, he..." the tears were pricking the backs of his eyes, "We're engaged, um, together." Honesty grinned wide, twisted one of his blonde curls around his fingers.  
"That's sweet! Love at first sight; it's like a story, innit?"  
Ortega laughed, but his laugh was cut and tinny.  
"So where've you been all this time?" Vichy still looked worried.  
"I was at his house - his family's home. In the mountains." Tega's eyes went distant for a moment before refocusing.

"A family home in the mountains?! Who's a lucky one, then!" Honesty giggled as he drew up a seat and leaned in to more intently examine Tega's ring.  
"Did he give you this?" he was pointing to the bear whose paw was in a vice grip in Ortega's right hand. Ortega looked at it in surprise; he'd forgotten he'd taken it with him.  
"Um, yes."  
Honesty smiled even wider.  
"So he's _nice_ , too? It's like a perfect story!"  
"So when are you getting married?" Grant asked, as engaged as Honesty in everything Tega was saying.  
"In a month."  
"When did you get pregnant?" Sai asked, confused. Ortega paused. The hesitation was momentary, but clear.

"Friday. It was Friday, wasn't it?" Jesse was watching Tega with a frightening calm. "Same day you met him. You didn't know him and you're not in love. Sloane let him rape you, didn't he? And he would do the same to all of us." Ortega didn't answer - couldn't answer! How could he? Everyone was here; everyone was watching. He wanted to disappear. The silence was thick. Jesse shook his head.  
"There's your perfect fucking fairy tale, Honesty."

~:~

The fun/mandatory social started in fifteen minutes. Jesse still hadn't cleaned up, bathed, or even distantly thought about getting dressed. Sloane was _pissed_.  
"Ten fucking minutes, Paik, and if you're not out of that goddamn bathroom, I'm coming in after you and you're going to the social in whatever the hell you don't have on."  
Jesse shrugged and threw a towel over his shoulder. He took twenty minutes in the shower. He should have listened to Sloane.

He was just rinsing his hair when he heard a commotion outside - abruptly, the door came flying in and then two men he had never seen before with firm faces and blank eyes (chaperones, he belatedly realized), were grabbing him by the shoulders and gagging him roughly; then he was being dragged naked out of the bathroom, onto the cold tile floors of the center, and then outside, across rough ground, fighting all the way. Outdoors, they stopped halfway to the woods and just held him there, stalwart and silent. It took fifteen more minutes for Kosin to come out.

By the time he appeared, Jesse was shaking, shivering with the nighttime cold and fright and the realization that maybe he'd pushed his luck too far. He'd tried shouting through the gag, but that had just made them tighten it so now he could barely breathe, barely swallow, and he was a little frightened that he would swallow his own tongue.

The first thing Dr. Kosin did was hand the chaperone on his left a taser. The second was punch Jesse in the stomach. His mouth and eyes watered in pain and he wondered if he would drown in his own vomit.

"I would have thought," Officer Kosin said calmly, pushing his wire frames farther up on his nose as he circled Jesse, "That we could resolve our differences calmly. Now I see that I was mistaken."  
Jesse shook his head madly, trying to explain that he could be reasonable, he could be fair, this wasn't necessary.  
"It's too late, Jesse. Save your apologies for Sloane to sort out."

He nodded to the chaperone, who immediately applied the taser to Jesse's bare left arm. Pain electro-shot through his body and he seized, went stiff, shook and tried to get muscle control, tried to breathe through the pain, but it was all-consuming and before he could even move, Kosin said:  
"Again."

And this time it hurt worse than before, and he was screaming through the gag. Now the chaperones dropped him to the ground and he was seeing spots and black, but couldn't even register this through the fire.

Then it was the boots - one to the stomach, two to the chest, one to the back, two on his sides and ass. He was still shaking from the tase, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't escape. He vomited and someone untied his gag, tossed it to the side, kept kicking. He regained some awareness and screamed and got a boot to the face for it. He choked on a piece of his tooth.

He blacked out a little bit and came to with Kosin shaking him. He was lying on his back, naked in the grass. Kosin let go of him; he fell back onto the grass. His vision was fuzzy - no focus. Then Kosin's heel was pressing sharply into his groin and excruciating pain ballasted through him. He panted, tried to find his horizon line.

Kosin was speaking.  
"Next time, carrier." he said, wiping dust and blood from his boot with a cloth. "Next time."


	13. October 23

Almost two weeks, and Jesse had been perfectly well behaved. Sloane had smirked at him for the first few days, but afterwards seemed to have a change of heart and had been trying to soothe him and reengage him a bit more. Jesse accepted his kindness, but deep down suspected that Sloane might just be fattening him up for the kill. He watched his back.

He had spent the weekend after with Soria. In her apartment, he smelled warm flowers and momentarily was back in his childhood, rolling tiny monster trucks down the rivets between the tomatoes and the cabbage in her rooftop garden. Those days were gone. Soria was not. She put both arms around him when he opened the door with the passkey he still had - she hadn't changed the code, and he'd warned her about the danger of that, but she never wanted him to be unable to get to her. He loved her for that.

She kissed his face and helped him to make apple turnovers in the tiny white stove, which was hard because she could never remember quite how to make the doughy part and so he always had to come over from slicing the apples to help her. She laughed and turned on some sweet, easy gypsy music and danced around the kitchen for him, her bracelets sliding and long black locks flying. Jesse never wanted to leave.

It took her until dinner to ask about his bruises; he lied and said he'd had a bad trip and been in a bit of a boating accident. She shook her head and said she knew he hated boats so he would never stand up in one so how could that have happened? She asked if someone was beating him. He told her no, but that someone did. She flexed her fingers around her coffee cup, and he knew she was thinking of violence. He kissed her and promised that things would be alright.

For going out, Jesse was required to take a chaperone because he had recently been labeled a flight risk. His mother slapped it in the face; it didn't respond and so she risked another, then six more, seven, eight, and Jesse had to pull her off of the thing because he wasn't sure about her ever stopping.

But the next day was OK, and Sunday was splendid. They went for walks and Soria painted and sang along with heavy Spanish dancing music and Jesse told her all about Ortega, and Sloane and Suleiman and Vichy and Honesty and Sai and Grant and she asked if he'd met anyone who he really liked. Vichy and he were close, he admitted, but he still felt some distance between them. She suggested he try to bridge the gap - good friends are hard to find. He promised her he would try. He fell asleep listening to her sing and when he woke up, she had washed and packed his things.

At home, he found her favorite music box buried halfway in his luggage.


	14. November 1

"Hey. You look lost."   
Jesse turned around to see the man he'd noticed earlier jogging up to him, smiling. Caution kicked in before he could stop it, and Jesse glanced around, checking for a guardian. It would be just his luck to go out once on his own and get kidnapped.

"No, I'm - just, uh, just waiting for someone."  
"Ah." the man looked vaguely disappointed.  
"Just a friend." Jess clarified, unwilling to pass up any chances. The man smiled.

He was in his late twenties, Jesse supposed, sizing him up as he'd begun to do out of habit. Probably well-off, nicely built and tallish - maybe just above 6' - attractive enough, with soft brown hair cut soldier-short and warm brown eyes in a cherubic face; a defined jaw and pert nose finished the all-American look. Jesse shrugged. Sure, he was cute, but cute didn't cut it; this one had nothing better than most. He turned back to the lake.

"Aren't you not allowed out without a chaperone?" the man asked quietly, shifting his hands into his pockets. Jesse began to back away immediately.  
"I do have one. He's just gone for a second."

This was ridiculous. He had been a soldier; he was an adult, fully capable of taking care of himself, not a child about to be lured off by some questionable stranger. Still, Jesse's heart began to beat triple time against itself, alerting every muscle in Jesse's body to the nearing possibility of flight. The man noticed, and immediately took his hands from his pockets, holding them up for Jesse's inspection.

"It's OK. It's OK." he laughed a little. "I'm not trying to steal you off or anything. Honest." Jesse didn't relax. The man shrugged and backed away a few steps. "I'm Michael."  
"Of?" the question was out before Jesse thought of how rude it might sound, and he flinched in time with the man.  
"They don't teach you carriers tact in the Centre, I see."  
"Sorry."  
"Of Admiral O'Connor. Second estate. Third in generation. Don't be sorry."  
Jesse nodded, taking this in. Alright, so he had an advantage over most.  
"Don't worry - I'm not."

Jesse suddenly felt silly for his paranoia, and began to close the distance between them, holding out one hand to shake Michael's. He took it, eyeing Jesse unabashedly as he did so. Jesse flushed and pulled his hand back.

"Sorry." Michael checked himself sheepishly.  
"They don't teach you soldiers subtlety on the base, I see."  
Michael laughed, then sobered.  
"Seriously, though - what are you doing out alone?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"I just... needed to get some air."  
"Awfully risky."  
"I don't care."  
"Well, I do. Something could happen to you out here." Michael stiffened the collar on his coat. "Carriers are our most valuable natural resource. We can't lose you." he blinked at the young carrier in front of him and began to move back towards the complex. "Let's go. I'll walk you in."  
Jesse didn't move, and Michael turned back.  
"Come _on_." He sounded annoyed, and the woods were getting darker, so Jesse decided in favor of the idea and followed the man back down the winding forest path towards home.


	15. November 2

**Wednesday**

At lunch the next day, Vichy wanted to talk about plans for his wedding. Jesse mostly pretended to listen and picked at his lunch, which consisted of cooked oysters, potatoes, kale, and vitamins. It was meant to make him fertile. He didn't want any of it.

Vichy was poring over a guest list, and Jesse was dutifully pretending to listen while stabbing a potato quietly with his knife.

"Jesse."  
He looked up. There was a chaperone standing in front of their table. His heart skipped a beat. The chap impassively held one hand out and offered him a pretty baby blue box, tied with a red ribbon. With a glance at Vichy, who was regarding the entire exchange with a mix of trepidation and interest, he took it. The chaperone nodded and left. Vichy looked at Jesse. Jesse looked at the box. Right away, he knew.

"What is it?" Vichy asked, examining the box as if maybe the answer was a cobra.  
Jesse swallowed and untied the ribbon; the delicate bow fell away the moment he pulled one corner. He lifted the lid.  
"It's a leaf."  
Jesse felt a weird mix of relief, excitement, and fear. He turned the box over, dumped the leaf out. A note fell out after it, along with a folded sheet of paper.

Care to take a walk?  
\- Michael Kieran, 3rd Heir, 2nd Estate of Admiral O'Connor, Draft Registration #247C6D9.1

Jesse considered throwing up, but held it in and looked at the paper instead.

"Jesse? What's it say?"  
Vichy took the note from him and read it, responding only with a raised eyebrow. Jesse moved on to the long paper. It was folded in a very official-looking way, printed on thick paper. He opened it up, glanced it over, swallowed and folded it back. Vichy watched him cautiously.  
"So...who's Michael Kieran?"  
Jesse swallowed.  
"I met him yesterday. On my unapproved walk."  
Vichy's face lit with alarm.  
"You didn't."  
Jesse blinked at him a moment before comprehension dawned.  
"Fuck no! I just - we just talked."  
Vichy's relief was palpable, and he relaxed, then peered over at Jesse's paper.  
"What's the rest?"  
Jesse swallowed.  
"It's a copy of the papers authorizing our courtship."

Jesse stared out the window, felt like he was in free fall. When had his life become so tentative, so delicately balanced that it all could go to mess in a matter of seconds? He saw visions of himself and white picket fences. He saw himself sitting in the Centre forever. He wondered which was worse.

Vichy was looking at him in a worried way.  
"You going to be OK?"  
Jesse shrugged, put the leaf back in the box, then nodded.  
"I'm going to be fine."

~:~

His approved walk got scheduled for Friday at 4, which Jesse distinctly appreciated at first because it got him out of private counseling, but then Sloane had just rescheduled rather than canceled, so now he was missing a Saturday morning. It rained in the afternoon, so Jesse was forced to spend his free hours indoors with Vichy and Ortega. Grant and Honesty had disappeared off for some kind of clandestine purpose, Sai was sleeping, Suleiman had gone off to meditate alone, and there was still and hour and a half to kill before Carrier Counseling.

Jesse's hair had gotten long since he'd been at the Centre, and despite Sloane's constant urging that he do something pretty with it, he mostly left it to its own devices. Straight and black as it was, it grew almost to his shoulders by now, and so to occupy the time, Vichy was now sitting on the bed behind him, brushing it while Jesse sat on the floor. Ortega sat in a chair opposite, chewing quietly on a fingernail.

"So you're leaving early this weekend?"  
Tega nodded.  
"We're going - going to visit his family in the south. We have to leave early."  
Vichy used a comb to slowly work out a tangle.  
"You've met his family before, right?"

Ortega nodded, thought back to two weekends before, when he'd met James' brother and two cousins - they'd all been nice enough, but their father had continued to give him at best an icy stare, and at worst a covert strike when James was not around. Tega hated the man, couldn't figure out what made him so angry, so bitter. When he'd asked, James always told him not to worry about it and coaxed him into bed instead. Tega had quit asking.

"They're nice to me."  
"What do they think about..." Vichy gestured to Ortega with one hand, referring to his pregnancy in the only way Tega would accept.  
"They're happy."  
Vichy worked out another tangle.  
"Do your grandparents know yet, Tega?"  
He shook his head vigorously.  
"When are you going to tell them?"  
Tega shrugged and began to shift around in his seat, biting hard on his fingernail now.  
Vichy changed the topic.

"So, Jesse! Tell us about...Michael? That's his name, right? What's his story?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"I don't know. He's very blanco. Boring rich baby boy, as far as I can tell."  
Jesse answered, morosely. Vichy made a sound of pleased interest that was mostly intended to encourage Jesse to go on.  
"OK. So what's he look like?"  
"Like they all do. Like the end of my freedom."  
Vichy yanked through a particularly tangled knot.  
"Fuck! Vich!"  
"I'm doing you a favor."  
A long pause passed between them.  
"So what does he look like, again?"  
Jesse answered slowly.  
"He's broadly built, but he's got a baby face. Irish blood. Big smile. Dark hair, brown eyes."

Ortega looked interested; nowadays, he looked interested in anything that wasn't his own life.  
"So you like him?" he asked with only the vaguest hint of jealousy.  
Jesse looked up, winced when Vichy's comb met a knot.  
"I don't know anything about him."

Ortega shrugged, staring hard out the window.  
"But when has that ever really mattered?"


	16. November 3

**Thursday  
**  
Havar.

It hadn't been a bad day, but it hadn't been a particularly good day, either. It had just been a day, much like any other. Havar wandered into the showers, towel slipping low along his waist, cinched on a side by one hand. Under the hot water, he soaped his back, legs, chest, and arms, face, hair, and gently, his female entrance and penis, both of which were still sore from the change.

The showers were empty this time of day, and Havar timed it that way on purpose. He leaned his head back under the flow, rinsing through, shaking the water from the tight curls of his hair before dipping back under to be soaked through again. The day had been long, and he savored these moments of privacy, times for thought with no one but God and himself.

He finished his bath, shook his hair through one more time, and headed out towards the lockers, careful to wrap the towel around himself. At #262, he twisted the combination (a bit of an antiquated idea, having locks like this) and popped open the door with a familiar metallic cling-clang. He dropped his uniform on one the bench by his thigh and was just about to drop the towel and dress when a sound from behind startled the fuck out of him.  
The man laughed.

"Jumpy, aren't we, soldier?"  
Havar heaved in a breath.  
"You just startled me a bit, sir."  
"Keeps you on your toes. You finished for the day, Granger?"  
"Yes, sir. Just done my workout, getting on my way."

Commander Anton Yavisk looked him over, lingering for a moment on his still-exposed chest, and Havar wondered briefly if the rumors were right; he had a sudden sickening fear of being discovered like this, here, by him. But when he looked again, his commander had already lost interest and was busily extracting something from one of the unmarked lockers with a set of master keys.

"Workout. How much was your bench today, Granger?"

Havar flushed a little - since his change, he'd found his muscle mass rapidly decreasing, and he'd had to work overtime at weights to gain it back. He still wasn't quite there. He'd told them all he hadn't been eating well.

"185, sir."

Yavisk made a vague sound of approval, found what he was looking for, and abruptly shut the locker back, turning to Havar for only a brief nod before going on his way.

Hearing the heavy metal door clang shut behind him made Havar release the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Lucky, he thought, that the commander had been so distracted by whatever he'd been looking for that he hadn't thought to ask why that door hadn't been open in the first place. It would have been very easy after that, Havar reflected, for Yavisk to expose his secret.


	17. November 4

**Friday**

It came out, when Honesty did not arrive with the rest of them for private counseling hours, that Honesty had been proposed to by a visiting A.W.N.S. dignitary, had agreed, and would be gone across the ocean by the end of the week. He looked troubled when he told them this; he only spared one or two glances up to meet their eyes, and stuck a long time on Grant, who was taking everything in with a quietly thoughtful look.

The group followed him to his room after lunch to help him start to pack; at around four, the slick black car came which would take him first to spend a few days in the company of his new husband, then on to the planeyard, to embark on his new life on the other side of the world.

At around five, Sai found Grant hanging in his room, strangled with a cord from Honesty's bed.  
Grant and Honesty, it came out, had been lovers.  
Honesty, it came out, had been keeping Grant alive.

That evening, two chaperones came and took his cold, limp body away. Vichy planned an evening vigil, but Kosin stopped by shortly to say that it would be impossible, and so they'd all just sat quietly in their rooms together, Ortega and Jesse missing and nobody daring to cry.


	18. November 5

Jesse found out when he got home. Vichy wouldn't talk, just laid silently in the dark, awake and thinking of him. He and Jesse went to bed without speaking.

In the morning, Vichy was better, although he slept through Jesse leaving for private counseling and only woke up when he returned at almost noon.

~:~

Alone in his bedroom, Havar was struggling. His head hurt again, the third time in six days, and he had awful cramps. He'd woken up damp and slipped a hand between his legs. It came back red. He got up and washed himself, scrubbed the sheets, scrubbed his blankets, tried to scrub clean everything in sight. He stared a long time at his hands. His stomach started to ache. He curled up on his bed. He felt like dying. He played sick; didn't go to drills. That day would be his first mistake.

~:~

Ortega woke up at six to someone licking him. Still sleepy, he mumbled his disaccord and put up a hand to push James away. James went easily. James had fur. He opened his eyes.

Above him, his husband was smiling tightly, holding a bright-eyed, droopy eared black and white puppy up to his face. Ortega couldn't stop himself from smiling back. James's face relaxed; had his expression meant he was worried? Tega sat up and reached out with both hands to take the wriggling ball of fur with four dangling spotted legs.

"He's mine?"  
James laughed and sat down on the bed next to him.  
"He's yours. If you want him. I honestly didn't know whether or not you even liked dogs."  
Ortega gave James his best serious look.  
"I _love_ dogs."

James chuckled.  
"Well, I thought you might like a little company. For when I can't be here."  
Tega shrugged, lifting each of the puppy's ears one at a time as the puppy tried to catch his fingers.  
"I'm not lonely. I have Andy. And Cris."  
"I know, but I also thought you might like to play with someone your own age." James teased him and Tega laughed.  
"I am not that much younger; Cris is only twenty-six."

James shrugged and Tega made a face as the puppy caught his finger between sharp milk teeth.  
"How big will he get?"  
James looked the puppy over. He'd specifically asked for the hardiest-looking one of the bunch.  
"Maybe knee-high. Not so big."  
"Oh."

The puppy had grown bored of Tega's finger, and was looking around between the pillows for something new to chew on.  
Tega picked him up and he snuggled into his arms. James stole a kiss. Tega flushed and, checking James' expression, moved to set the puppy on the ground.  
"No." James stopped him and Ortega looked back, alarmed. "I - it's OK. I just wanted a kiss."

Ortega glanced at him, unsure, but James seemed focused on something else entirely. Ortega sat quietly across from him.  
"Have you been sick lately?" Tega shook his head no. "Hmm." James mused over this. "They said it was expected for a carrier of your age and size."

Tega just shrugged again, but inwardly, he felt a little flash of hope - maybe they'd been wrong? It had been so early when they'd checked...

James was watching him play with two tiny spotted paws.  
"What are you going to name him?"  
Tega furrowed his brow, his adorable brown eyes looking thoughtful and concerned. James couldn't resist kissing him again. Tega pulled away, eyes flashing with idea. "I will call him Torreón."  
"Call him anything you like, just don't forget to feed him in the mornings."

James got up to leave the room; a thought occurred to Ortega.  
"James, where will he stay? I don't think they'll let me keep him at the center with me."  
James paused in the doorway, turned back to look evenly over his shoulder at Ortega.  
"He can stay here, with you."  
Tega just looked at him for a moment, a bit stunned by the statement. James frowned, turned back around to face him.  
"You didn't think I would let you stay at the Centre forever?"  
In his head, he supposed, he hadn't really thought about it. He hadn't wanted to think about it.  
"No, but - "  
"It's just until the wedding."  
Tega's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't even thought about the wedding yet. His grandmother - his mama - would want to come. He had to call her. He put the puppy down. James regarded him with concern.  
"We'll be back and forth, you know. Between here and there. As soon as I fulfill my requirements, we'll be go more between here and the house in the mountains. Maybe a little time on base, every eight months or so."

Ortega realized then that he'd never even talked to his husband about the minutiae of his own new life. He didn't even know his own home. Suddenly, desperately, Ortega started to cry. The puppy, disturbed from its daynap, got up and climbed into his lap, then out again. James came and sat by his side.  
"I'm sorry, Tega." he could hear him saying, like grey noise in the distance, "But it's the way things have to be."


	19. November 6

When he was a little boy, his grandmother had woken him early in the morning, every Sunday, to brush his hair, light a few candles, and say early morning prayers before they went together to chapel. She had woken him this way every week through his life, taken him every Sunday until the last Sunday, when two broad, harsh men from the Institute of Carrier Studies hopped out of a jeep and called his name off of a clipboard.

The Institute called ahead in those days; she had known they were coming, had even cooked them a meal. She packed three hot dinners and held on to Ortega for as long as they would let her, and when she'd finally let him go, she had made him promise that, while he was away from her, he would not miss a single Sunday; he would get up every week and do the same until they were back together again.

Ortega had, and when her letters and an occasional allowed phone call to hear the sound of her voice was not enough, he would go and sit by himself in an empty chapel, imagining that he was a little boy back home again, feeling the kiss of her lips, or perhaps the soft scent of jasmine and butterflower that was always in her hair. They did not sit together in those days during church, but they would soon; they would, now that he, too, had become a mother. Ortega had thought about this every week, every day he'd passed through the tall wooden doors, and he hadn't missed a Sunday, never, not until three weeks ago, when a man named James had gotten out of a jeep and called his name.

Today was another day he would miss.

Tega woke up sick and said his Hail Marys hunched over the toilet of the blue-and-white bathroom in the upstairs hall. Andy came in, looked sympathetic, and brought him ice water and a slice of bread. When he was done, Andy took him to bed, sat and brushed back his hair while he cried and asked hysterically for his mama.

~:~

Sunday was also the last day that Havar spent alone. He got up in time for brunch in the hall, waited to be sure the bleeding had stopped (it had), dressed and went down to eat. He left his door unlocked, as was his custom - short jaunts and tight security in the barracks didn't tend to require great vigilance. Paranoia was fresh, but habit was strong; he checked the room in his head; no evidence, nothing to find or know or see. Unlikely anyone would look in the first place. His room was his private space; its sanctity would be respected. This trust in his fellow soldier would be his second mistake.

He found two friends of his sitting alone, eating by the window. They grinned and welcomed him to sit, just not next to either of them since they didn't want whatever had him down like that yesterday. Havar laughed, rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair.

He'd been feeling a little woozy since Saturday, and so he piled his plate with glucose - anything sweet, he figured, plus extra meat, and he'd be right as rain in no time. He got out of line, full plate, and sat down to devour it with his group of (now three) friends. He was so focused on the conversation, which had taken an intriguing turn into which newbie might be the purveyor of the excellent hash a fourth friend of their had been lately equipped with, he hadn't spared a glance from his table till the meal was almost over.

Across the room, Anton Yavisk was watching him. Havar felt a chill. He looked away immediately. The conversation, having drifted, was glancing on the ever-discussable topic of fucking. Havar felt a spike of anxiety, smothered it with a long drink of orange juice. One of his friends was wrapping up a monologue and Havar was suddenly, acutely, aware of what he'd been saying.

"So if one of them were right in front of me, and I had no other chance," he was laughing, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "Hell yeah, I'd just take it."

He glanced at Havar, just by chance, but it felt like an arrow through to his very soul; Havar felt sick; the orange juice tasted sour. He choked on it, spit it back into the glass. Brian, sitting to the left, looked over at him.

"You OK?"  
Havar nodded, coughed to cover the flush darkening his cheeks.  
"Swallowed wrong. I'm fine."  
Brian nodded, went back to listening to what the other two were saying. Havar got up to return his tray, not looking to see if Yavisk was still watching him.  
This would be his third mistake.


	20. November 7

Jesse found another notecard slipped under his door when he woke up.

_Jesse,  
It's been a while, and I'd like to spend some time with you without the constant scrutiny of a military drone. Thus, I've arranged a chaperone-free visitation. I'll get you from the west door, tomorrow at noon. Dress warmly.  
  
With great affection,   
Michael Kieran, 3rd Heir, 2nd Estate of Admiral O'Connor_

 

Jesse held on to the paper for a while, turning the message over in his head. One the one hand, it sounded fairly harmless - the chaperones _were_ annoying, and he could understand Michael's frustration with their lack of privacy. But on the other hand...requesting a completely unsupervised visit was rarely a completely harmless action.

However, in his favor, Michael seemed pretty even-keeled; not at all like the type to suddenly go and do something terrifying - maybe he was a bit presumptuous, but innocuous. On the other other hand, this might be a trap. In fact, it was probably a trap. Jesse imagined himself and Michael, alone at their usual walking spot, off in the middle of the woods. No one would even hear...

Jesse cut off that line of thinking, folded the note up. Whatever the invitation was implying, he didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. He'd be by the west door at noon. A hand on his back made him jump. Vichy raised both eyebrows, then saw the piece of paper folded in Jesse's hands. His face darkened.  
"A summons?"  
Jesse shook his head and Vichy looked relieved.  
"What, then?"

Jesse glanced away, trying to think of an appropriately cagey answer to put off further inquiry. Vichy caught on immediately. A broad grin broke across his face.  
"Him again? Show me!"

Jesse shook his head but Vichy would not be deterred. He faked left, moved right, then reached around Jesse's unguarded left shoulder and took the note from his hand.  
"Come on, Vichy, give that back - that's mine!"

Vichy ignored him, now busy reading. As he read, his smile faded. He turned slowly. Jesse felt a lump in his throat; he hadn't wanted anyone else to know for a reason. If he was right, if it was a trap...he would just rather the inevitable at least not be a public spectacle. Vichy's face was confirming his fears.

"Does Sloane know about this?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
Vichy pressed the paper hard against Jesse's chest.  
"Tell him. Tell him now, tell him you got this and don't know how and tell him you don't want to go. He'll fix it. He _has_ to."  
Jesse rolled his eyes.  
"Maybe you've forgotten, but Sloane and I aren't exactly on the best of terms. He's not always very inclined to get me off of an authorized event engagement. And I wouldn't even want him involved in this; he'd help me just like he helped Ortega."   
Vichy looked defeated for a minute, then shrugged it off.  
"Then you have to go to Kosin. Tell him there's been a mistake, that this shouldn't have been passed through."  
Jesse laughed.  
"I walk in that office and start telling them about the mistakes they've made, they'll tell me to go to hell and send four chaperones to make sure I complete the trip."  
"Then ignore the instructions. Take a chaperone. Take two. Take three!"  
Jesse smiled ruefully and shook his head.  
"Won't matter, Vichy. You know he'll find a way."

Vichy struggled with this, chewing roughly on his lip.  
"I can tell Jonathan. Yes, I can tell Jonathan and I'll just ask him to...do something to stop it. He'll help you if I ask him."  
Jesse gave his roommate half a gentle grin.  
"You save your fiancé's favors for someone who really needs them. I promise you, Vichy, that I'll be alright."   
He took the crumpled piece of paper that Vichy was still holding fast against his chest and smoothed it out in one hand. Vichy was clenching and unclenching his fists.  
"I just don't want anything to happen to you, Jesse. I don't want - " Vichy cut himself off and bit his lip again. "I don't want you to go."  
Jesse looked up, impressed by the forcefulness belied by his usually meek friend's tone.  
"Vichy," he answered calmly, "I'm going to have to."

~

Jesse couldn't sit still all through Arts in the Afternoon. They were supposed to be sketching still-lifes of various historical artifacts, but Jesse's page just had three or four charcoal lines and one angry blue scribble on it. Art was not his forté. Jesse found himself constantly twitching, fidgeting with the pencils, his stool, the easel, his clothes. Vichy kept throwing him worried glances, looking once at Jess, then meaningfully up at Sloane. Jesse ignored this.

"Jesse, _please_ tell him."  
"No. And you keep it quiet, too, since you weren't even supposed to know in the first place."  
"Nobody asks you to meet them alone like that if they're not - if they don't have something in mind. Nobody does that."  
"Michael does that. It's fine. _I'm_ fine."

Sloane looked suspiciously over at Vichy and Jesse and so Jesse picked up his pencil and scribbled some more. Two horizontal lines made a tic-tac-toe board. He drew an 'o' in the middle.

"Besides, I get to skip carrier counseling. If Michael wanted to...do this, he couldn't have picked a better day."  
Vichy stopped drawing, stared straight at Jesse.  
"You think this is funny?"  
Jesse quirked an eyebrow and squinted at his tic-tac-toe board.  
"I have to laugh, V. What else can I do?"


	21. November 8

Jesse's first thought on waking was that he wished it would rain. It didn't, of course, and so he got up and showered and dressed and went to eat with Vichy and Sai and Ortega and Suleiman. Their group felt so small, the two missing chairs that everyone noticed but no one mentioned like an ocean between themselves and the rest of the room. They were five alone, floating - an island unto themselves. Sai spoke first, poking his fork into a plate of egg and cheese.

"I think Vichy's right; I don't think you should go, Jesse."  
Jesse rolled his eyes. Vichy: the fucking CEC daily news. He used his knife to pull his plate closer.  
"Thanks, but I'll be fine."

Ortega was looking at him with that little worried look he had, but kept quiet and just twisted his fork around and around in his hand. Suleiman chewed idly and looked out of the window. Vichy seemed abashed by Sai's reveal of his chattiness and didn't say anything at all. Jesse looked down at his food.  
"It's just a walk."

Ortega suddenly dropped his fork; the resulting clatter was only half as startling as the fact that immediately afterwards, he was slamming both hands, hard, into Jesse's chest. Jesse fell backwards and hit the floor; the room was loud with chairs scraping and people running, talking (some cheering), silverware scraping plates and the sound of Ortega's blows landing on Jesse's stomach (he promptly curled into a ball), back, and sides. Vichy was there, too, doing his best to restrain Tega without either of them getting hurt. Nobody was speaking - Tega was too angry and Jesse and the others were too shocked. Then the silence broke and Vichy shouting and asking Ortega what the hell he was thinking and Jesse what the hell he'd said.

Tega finally calmed, allowed himself to be pulled off of Jesse and backwards, across the floor, ending up more or less cradled like a child in Vichy's arms.  
"You have a chance, Jesse; I didn't! And you say it's just a walk, you sit there and laugh like it's some kind of joke. Am I a joke to you, Jesse? Is my life a joke?! Well, I tell you what - you take my walk and I'll take yours. I would jump to do it, Jesse, because your walk, at least, still has a chance of escape!"

Then it was clear and Vichy was hauling Ortega to his feet and cold hands were beneath Jesse's arms and he was being lifted up in the air. He vaguely heard someone shouting about restraining him and Kosin and his last thought before the pinprick that made him black out was: at least he wouldn't be going for any walks today.

~

Jesse woke up in the infirmary at ten. Michael came at twelve. Jesse startled to see him and became suddenly engrossed in picking small threads off of his bed's blanket, face red and mouth dry. He glanced up, noticed Michael was carrying a brown sack in his left hand. Michael looked him over once, did his peculiar half-smile, and edged into a seat on the end of Jesse's bed.

"Hey." he leaned towards Jesse. "How do you feel?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"I hate getting tranked."  
"Well, getting in breakfast-room fights tends to get these CEC folks a little trigger happy. And a breakfast-room fight involving a pregnant carrier, to boot."  
Jesse's face reddened as he remembered. Michael lifted the sack onto Jesse's bed.  
"I didn't start it."  
"I know. Spent the better part of the morning convincing them of that fact."  
Jesse rolled his eyes.  
"And why would they listen to you? You weren't even there."  
Michael stopped opening the sack, turned to look evenly at Jesse.  
"As the only suitor to ever manage your good graces for more than fifteen minutes, I am granted certain...allowances when it comes to you. They let me give a statement about your generally decent behavior. I told them you were stellar."  
Michael winked and Jesse felt suddenly began to feel hot.

Michael had turned, was already back to the task at hand. He spoke over his shoulder.  
"Want to tell me what happened?"  
Jesse shrugged again, eyeing the sack suspiciously and pushing down the blanket to cool his skin. Michael began to pull something out of the bag.  
"Did you say something to make him mad?"  
Jesse flicked his eyes up, but Michael wasn't paying attention, missed it. He just shrugged.

"What'd you say, Jesse?"  
Michael's voice was gentle, but firm. He was pulling two sets of chopsticks out of the sack. He set them next to two pretty black bowls on the table at the end of Jesse's bed. Jesse watched him in interest for a moment, until their eyes accidentally met. "The story, Jesse. Go on."

At first, he couldn't, but he tried and soon, Jesse felt it all flowing out of him, the whole brief argument and what he knew it meant and how quickly Ortega had gotten mad, and how everyone thought he took things too lightly but he didn't know, he just didn't know what else he was supposed to do. And then Michael was there, and he didn't know what to do about that, either.

At the end of it, Michael was just sitting on the bed, nodding calmly. He bent his brow inward for a moment, then relaxed and loked up at his companion.  
"I recognize that I, too, had a part in this, Jesse." Jesse looked interested, but didn't ask.  
"It was rather imprudent of me to ask to see you the way I did. It could even, I know now, have been construed as threatening, and I must admit that your little cafeteria fight was a brilliant way to get out of it."

"But," here, he lifted the sack again, reaching into it with one hand. "Since I couldn't bring you to my plans in the forest, I thought I'd bring at least a little bit of the forest to you."  
He first pulled out a leaf from the sack, which he handed over to Jesse, then reached in again and retrieved two clear containers. Both were full of food. Michael set them down next to the bowls.  
"Now, it's nothing like home, I'm aware," he pulled out two pieces of sweet mango fruit, "But," he also removed two red cups and a bottle of wine, "I did the best I can." He stood up from the bed, stepped back to admire the spread.  
"I tried to make you dinner."


	22. November 9

James was **pissed**. There was simply no other word to describe it.

Ortega had been sitting quietly in classroom 3E, between Vichy and Suleiman on the sofa, when the door came banging in with a cold breeze and James' fury. Tega was up in a blink, his heart pounding in his chest as his fiancé closed the space between them.  
"Fights? You're getting in motherfucking fights in the breakfast room? You are pregnant with my child and you're getting in _fucking fights_?"  
James was radiating anger; Ortega shook his head, began backing away. Jesse tensed in his seat as Vichy and Suleiman moved to put themselves between Ortega and James.  
"Fucking fights! They send me a message, I've been on constant duty for three days, and this is what I come home to - come here, Ortega - lies from you and morning _fucking fights_!"

James knocked a stack of books off the table - they scattered on the floor. Ortega tasted sick in his mouth, tried to wet his dry tongue and explain himself.

"It wasn't a fight, it wasn't a fight, James! Please, it was just horseplay, I'm sorry, it wasn't a fight, please."  
James' chest heaved; he circled the sofa, pressing Vichy, Suleiman and Ortega back towards the wall. The front two put their shoulders together, blocked his way to Tega. He leveled a vicious glare at them.  
"Move."  
Suleiman shook his head. James backhanded Vichy, who staggered to the side in shock. Even his own husband didn't hit him like that.

Jesse was across the room, arms swinging before he even thought a little bit about what he was doing, only knowing that he was furious because James had stormed in here, James had hit his friend, and now James was coming for Tega. He connected solidly with the back of James' head and had just enough time to see Ortega's mouth get wide before he hit the ground with two hands around his neck. James was enraged. The pressure was unbearable. Ortega was screaming at James to stop it. Spots appeared. James pressed on, saying something that Jesse couldn't understand. Then suddenly, the pressure was gone and he heard voices in the room. For once, he was glad to see Kosin.

~

Spoke too soon.  
He knew it.  
Jesse crossed one leg over the other, undid them and set both feet back on the floor. He shook. He tried to calm down. He'd been examined around the neck, determined to be fine, taken back to the main office and made to sit like a child in the hallway, four seats away from Ortega who couldn't make himself stop crying. Kosin was inside with James. Jesse wished he could hear what they were talking about. They'd been in there a long time. He risked a glance at Ortega. One of the chaperones stepped forward. He returned his gaze immediately to the floor.

The sound of boots made him look up, and alarm and confusion lit his face. Michael was coming towards him, down the hall. His face was an indecipherable mix of annoyance, anger, and concern, and Jesse felt a little dip in his stomach for reasons that escaped him. He looked back down at the floor. It probably looked pretty bad that he'd been in two fights in two days, and they had only known each other a week and a half. Sloane had told him before that no officer who wanted him would keep him long; he was too much trouble for anyone in their right mind to handle. He'd been proud of it at the time, savored the idea of being completely out of hand, but now his pride just seemed silly, inappropriate. He didn't want Sloane to be right. He didn't want Michael, who'd been kinder to him than anyone he'd met since his change, to decide that he wasn't worth it. He didn't want to miss out on a sincere possibility because of two stupid fights that weren't even his fault.

He stared at the floor some more. Two boots appeared in his line of vision. He looked up. Michael was just staring calmly at him, little lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. Jesse didn't speak, and after a moment of silence, Michael just shook his head, turned, and went into Kosin's office. Jesse surprised himself by suddenly wanting to cry.

"Jesse." A few minutes later, and Kosin was standing in his doorway, calling him by his first name. He always called him by his first name when Michael was around. Jesse looked up. "Come in here, please."

Jesse glanced up at the chaperones, trying to gauge the situation. They remained in position, neither tensing nor relaxing. Jesse swallowed and got to his feet. He was sitting alone; Sloane had come a little while ago and taken Ortega home. The hallway seemed preternaturally empty for a Wednesday at noontime. He followed Kosin into the room.

James was seated in a chair across from Kosin's desk, hands steepled but face looking calmer than it had earlier that morning. Jesse gave him a wide berth as he entered. Michael sat in the seat opposite him, and looked up when Jesse came close, but didn't smile or speak. Jesse felt his heart leap into his throat. Kosin motioned for him to sit in the empty third chair between the two men.

Jesse did so, doing his best not to look as nervous as he felt and trying very hard to project the image of being No Trouble At All. Kosin began to speak.  
"Jesse, your behavior these past two days has been...beyond unacceptable."  
Jesse felt his face get hot.  
"But I didn't - "  
"You speak when he tells you to speak, Carrier. Not before." James' voice was cold and vicious and had no kindness in it at all. Michael said nothing. Jesse felt exposed, tacked up and surveyed from all angles. He threw a glance to his right; Michael's expression hadn't changed - it was still blank, any emotion well hidden.  
Kosin went on.  
"Your behavior has crossed the line from simple self-sabotage to posing a direct danger to your peers and others in this community."

 _Community?_ Oh, that was a funny word for it. He didn't know prisons could be called communities.   
Jesse immediately berated himself for this thought; he'd had enough trouble for one day, didn't need any more.

"It is my inclination and desire, Jesse Paik, to have you sent to Rowe House."

Jesse's stomach did a triple lutz. They were going to kill him. Maybe some of the others could handle Rowe House, but he couldn't - he knew it. He'd take his own life first; it must be what they intended to have him do. He was a dead man walking. No wonder Michael had looked so strange - he was only here to pay his last respects. Jesse cast one miserable look to his left. James was smiling. Jesse felt half-dead already. Kosin was moving from behind his desk, fingers clasped calmly in a knot behind him.  
"However,"  
What?  
"Officers James Irvine and Michael O'Connor feel that my judgment would be in excess, considering the nature of each offense."  
...what?  
"I feel that they are wrong. However," here, a bit of a glare went out at Michael as he passed, "I have been overwritten. But frankly, Jesse Paik, I am through even attempting to make peace with you. You'll be reintegrated with Sloane's group - this time. Officer O'Connor has negotiated that. But one more time, Jesse, one more, and I will have your ass on the terrace at Rowe House inside of 12 hours."

Jesse swallowed reflexively.  
"Today, you'll be released into Officer O'Connor's custody. Henceforth, he will be responsible for your well-being, future term here at the Centre, and," Kosin smirked a bit here, clearly enjoying himself, "he will personally see to your discipline."

Jesse's eyebrows dipped to hide the concern in his eyes. His heart was beating triple time.  
"So now," Kosin completed his circuit around the desk and relaxed himself back into his seat, "Let's just see how well you behave."

James nodded to Kosin, who in turn inclined his head, dismissing him. He got to his feet, looked Jesse over one time, then addressed Michael.  
"Don't beat him so badly that he can't write an apology letter to Ortega in the morning."


	23. November 10

It hadn't been a particularly good day, and it hadn't been a particularly bad day. Just a day, not much unlike any other. Havar had eaten, he'd bathed, he'd gone to drills and work and been generally himself. He'd not had any trouble getting a private shower, he'd dressed without incident, and met his friends for dinner and had the waterfowl. After dinner, he'd gone to work out - weights to try to get his strength back, and running, which came easier now; he was lighter on his feet. After a half hour, he came panting to a stop. It was ten forty-two. He went to go into the showers.

When he came out, Yavisk was sitting in the locker room, straddling the bench that was between him and his locker. Havar felt his heart stop. Then it was pounding, and he clenched one hand spastically around the knot holding up his towel and looked expectantly at his CO. He could have sworn he'd locked the door. Had he forgotten? It wasn't safe to forget. Yavisk smiled to see him, twirled a set of keys around one hand and set them down.

"Hello, Havar."  
Havar swallowed.  
"Sir."  
"How was your workout?"  
Havar tensed.  
"Fine, sir."  
"Did you lift?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"That's good. Good."

Yavisk seemed to find some point of interest on the wall in front of him.  
"How much did you lift?"  
Havar flushed.  
"I pressed 180, sir." he lied. It had been 150 and it hurt.  
Yavisk mulled this over for a moment.  
"Used to be 200."  
Havar's heart picked up.  
"And you wouldn't even struggle. Never used to get sick, either, did you? And yet you've been sick twice this month alone."  
"Once, sir."  
Yavisk looked at him pityingly. Havar gritted his teeth.  
"I've been sick once this month, sir."  
"Ah. Once, then."

Havar shifted his position; the muscles in his stomach flexed and Yavisk let his eyes drift to them. Havar tensed and held the towel tighter.  
"You look flushed, private."  
"My shower was hot, sir."  
"You've been flushed a lot lately."  
"I was sick."  
"Mmm."  
Yavisk swung his leg over the bench and faced Havar straight-on. Havar shifted in annoyance.  
"Have I offended you in some way, sir? Because if so, I would appreciate knowing what you think I've -"  
"Do you know what I think, Private Granger? I think you've been keeping secrets from me."

The world spinning out and upside down couldn't have frightened him more. He took a step back, already running in his mind. Where could he go to get out of here? Into the showers was a dead end - could he make it past Yavisk, to the door, to the hall? What then? Where could he hide with a man like this after him? He would have to seek sanctuary, find a chaplain or a doctor or the office and just admit, make a full confession. What if no one was there?

Havar bit down the fear, trying to be reasonable. How could Yavisk know? He didn't know. Yavisk had no idea, was just trying to frighten him. Maybe he was speaking of something else. Hadn't some files gone missing lately? Maybe this was Yavisk's idea of an inquiry. Havar weighed his options, quickly and carefully. He decided to lie. This would be his last mistake.

"I don't know what you mean, sir."  
Yavisk chuckled, knocked the wood of the bench with one hand.  
"Oh."

Then he was on him like a snake, faster than Havar's feet could move to take him away, faster than Havar could even begin to decide where to run. Yavisk had him in a tight grip, and then suddenly his face was in the lockers and Yavisk was behind him, one hand knotted viciously in his hair and the other pushing the towel up around his waist.

Then there were fingers seeking him, prodding, and he heard a voice screaming and distantly, knew it as his own and then Yavisk's fingers were in him and it hurt and it felt weird and disgusting and he felt stuck between two moments in time. Then Yavisk withdrew, and Havar began to cry - great, stupid, heaving sobs that were mostly him just trying to take in a breath.

He couldn't see anymore; his eyes were too wet and his world was ending because he _knew_ \- Yavisk knew and he would destroy him. The pressure on his head released and his face felt sore when he moved it off the lockers and there were hands guiding him and he found himself on the bench, cradled in Yavisk's arms with the man stroking his hair while he cried that it was over, it was over, all of it was over.

Then he was being helped to his feet, and Havar went blindly - he couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't taste or feel or breathe. He felt foggy, lost. He was grateful for the guidance. In the next room, he almost tripped over something and Yavisk guided him gently around it, led him beside it and urged him to sit down. When he came back to himself, he was sitting wet and naked in the middle of a makeshift bed and Yavisk was undoing his zipper.

He got up immediately, bolted for the door, even made it, but it was locked utterly and completely and so Yavisk caught him by the arm and yanked him back, knocked him to the floor. Then he was rubbing something in his hand and he touched it to Havar's back and he had a moment to recognize the device he'd seen go into Yavisk's locker days ago and then there was indescribable pain shooting through his back and all his muscles tensed together and he felt like his skin was on fire.

Yavisk released him, let him seize out on the floor for a minute. When he had mostly gotten control of his muscles back and he was gasping for breath on the ground, Yavisk came and stood over him.  
"No. Running."

Havar couldn't respond, was too busy trying to make the burning stop. Yavisk stripped free of his shirt and kicked his boots off. Havar turned his head a little as the first went flying by, but it made shooting pains go up his neck, so he just laid quiet and still and tried not to get hurt. Then Yavisk was just in his fatigue bottoms and his tags dangling around his neck and he was bending over Havar with his arms on either side. He lifted Havar bodily from the floor, ignoring how he flinched because his skin still hurt, and laid him in the middle of the pile of mats on his makeshift bed.

When Havar could move his head without screaming again, Yavisk was kneeling nude at the end of the bed, his dick hard and heavy in his hand, emerging proudly from the end of the fist he had wrapped around it. If Havar had had any voice left to protest, he would have. As it was, all he could feel was tired. He was tired of hiding, tired of lying, tired of being on his toes all the time, tired of reworking his schedule, tired of jumping at every little shadow. He felt like he was dying, but at least it was over.

Yavisk was between his legs. He leaned over to look him in the eyes. Havar couldn't quite seem to focus. Yavisk furrowed his brow, looked worried. The zap had hit Havar harder than Yavisk had anticipated, but at least the boy had stopped shaking now. He slid a comforting hand across the carrier's forehead - Havar made a face, but didn't cringe away from his touch. He felt a bit of relief. Havar whispered something. He leaned closer. The boy had a beautiful face - all planes and soft lighting. Yavisk felt his dick get harder. He brushed one hand between two tawny thighs. Havar flinched a little, moved one hand out to grip the edge of the mats. Yavisk touched him more firmly then, spreading his legs roughly and wedging his own between to keep them open. The zap was almost completely worn down by then, and Havar felt panic bite at him when Yavisk's weight came down partially on his own. Yavisk must have sensed this.

"No. Running."  
Havar tried to shift just a little, to close his legs and gain some semblance of control.  
"Please, I - "  
"No. Keep them open."  
Yavisk palmed his own cock, which was red and swollen with arousal.  
"Sir, please, I - " the rest got choked on at that point, because Yavisk roughly shoved his cock into Havar's mostly-dry and still virgin entrance and he was in pain all over again.

Then Yavisk was above him, making a cage over his head with his body, heaving in and out of his Havar's moist entrance, slapping his balls noisily against Havar's ass. It was over mercifully quickly and Yavisk pulled out of him and rolled off the mat.

Havar lay still, trying to catch his breath and process the fact that only two hours ago, he'd been at dinner, in the caf, with his friends. He didn't have any friends now. They'd have him at the Institute by morning; he'd be lucky if he got to say goodbye.

Yavisk touched him and he jumped, then stared at the hand on his leg. If they asked at the Institute who'd discovered him...what would he say? Should he lie? If he told the truth, would Yavisk be angry with him? Why should he care? But if he told the truth, it might mean that Yavisk had a piece of him, was irreversibly tied to his life, in this horrible way that he couldn't undo. Tears bit at the back of his eyes. He couldn't think, he needed to think. Yavisk's hands were pushing him, moving him into place.

"What are you doing?"  
"Legs up. Here, hold them to your chest. Right. Like this."

Yavisk moved him into position and he complied, unsure of anything other than that he didn't really want another taste of that zap, and also that he was very tired of fighting. Yavisk made him lie like that for a few minutes while he got up, got the room together, picked up some of the things Havar had knocked over in his panic, and brought back his clothes from his locker and his towel from where it had been dropped.

He disappeared into the other room while Havar dressed, came back with the zap device and the set of keys from earlier dangling from his hand. Havar looked suspiciously at it, tried to angle his body away.

"Don't worry." Yavisk flicked a few buttons on it, wrapped it around his wrist. "No more zaps. The difficult part is over."

~

In the infirmary, the night doctor pulled his legs apart and made him tell exactly why it had taken him so long to confess. He choked on his words a few times, when all the questions got too much, and Yavisk stepped in to tell the doctor in a severe tone that he'd better take it easy.

The doctor sighed as he took his gloves off and let Havar get down and get dressed. He would have to call the Centre immediately, he informed them, and they most certainly would not be happy. It wouldn't reflect well on him, he deliberated, that this sort of thing had gone unnoticed.  
Yavisk assured him that it would be taken care of.  
The doctor sniffed and kept one eye on Havar. The Centre, he informed them, had very strict policies about this kind of deception. But if Yavisk was willing to testify that Havar's treachery (because it was treachery, the doctor assured him, and a crime against his country) was only some misguided attempt on his part to stay close to the man he loved (Yavisk), then perhaps the Centre might look more kindly on his case.  
Yavisk suggested that perhaps if the results of Havar's examination leaned a bit more in Yavisk's favor, then he might be able to arrange for the Centre to look more kindly on the doctor as well.  
The doctor went off to his office to draft a letter.

Havar sat quietly on the edge of the examination table, afraid to leave the room or pace or even move. He stared at his boots, trying simultaneously to process and also not to think. Yavisk was breathing calmly, sitting in a chair behind him. The sound made him angry and sick. The doctor reappeared.

The letter said that Havar, upon falling ill, had arrived in the infirmary. His keen sense of human behavior told the doctor that something was amiss, and after Havar had undergone some questioning, he quickly confessed. The doctor noted that although Yavisk had professed innocence in the entire situation, he suspected that the two were pursuing a romantic relationship, and insisted on examining Havar. Physical examination confirmed his suspicions, and the behavior of both parties suggested to him that the relationship was ongoing. Given that, the letter concluded, Havar might already be pregnant, and the best option for the Centre would be to simply let nature take its course, but to scold Havar seriously and commit him to intense classes as a punishment for his deception. Yavisk, naturally, would be offered full rights of pursuit and allowed to continue the relationship. Adjustments should be made accordingly.

Yavisk nodded his approval, and the doctor told him that although he would have future access to Havar, his carrier would have to be sent away, tonight, to avoid any further complications his presence in the barracks might cause. Yavisk said that he understood, asked the doctor for a few moments alone to say goodbye to his new bride. The doctor left them, glancing only once at Havar, and when he was gone, Yavisk fucked him again, on the examination table.


	24. November 11

**Friday**

For no particular reason, Jesse woke early on Friday. Upon waking, he rose and went to his window; outside, the November wind was just beginning to make the mornings cool, and he liked to crank open his one sliver of freedom and savor the smell of the hoarfrost coming in.

At seven, there was a chaperone at his door with a private message from Michael instructing Jesse to meet him for lunch. A car was already scheduled to pick him up from the grounds. It wasn't an invitation.

Jesse turned this over in his mind all the way through breakfast. Michael had postponed his punishment in the days before, opting simply to send him to his room for the night with the assignment to write Ortega an apology note before breakfast. Michael had first assigned an apology to James as well, but Jesse had made it clear that it was a blow he was unable to handle, and Michael had dropped the idea for the time being.

Jesse pushed the note to Ortega around with his index finger as he chewed his barley and milk. Six vitamins lined up neatly next to his bowl. One of them, he suspected, was actually one of the Centre's surprise feel-better pills. He wasn't sure, but Sloane had just looked at him sourly when he'd asked and wouldn't tell.

Jesse ate alone, Vichy having left early in the morning for a long weekend with his fiancé. Suleiman, Ortega, and Sai were still sleeping. Jesse wondered about his mother. He imagined Soria, standing on the roof in her old gray and red blanket, her hair wild and messy from sleep, taking in the November wind. He imagined himself there with her, standing by her side. He imagined home.

~:~

Havar slept in on his first morning at the Centre. For once, nothing disturbed his rest. The blare of morning sirens didn't jolt him from sleep, no aches or pains or too-real nightmares woke him in the middle of the night, and he didn't have to remember to get up an hour before everyone else and sneak down to the showers alone. He had his own shower here, in the temporary room they'd set up for him last night. His own shower, and a safe bed, and a mirror that he could look at himself in without feeling sick or afraid. He tried to think back on the night before, but his mind didn't seem interested in the mission. He gave up and rolled over onto his stomach, curling two arms tightly around a pillow.

Fifteen minutes after he'd awoken, there was a knock on the door. He decided to pretend to be asleep. The knock repeated itself, there was a pause, and then the sound of a door opening and quiet footsteps were in the hall. Havar buried his face in the pillows, did his best impression of sleeping like the dead.

"Havar."

Lightning couldn't have woken him faster. Yavisk was standing by the edge of his bed, one hand resting casually on the white thick comforter, eyes shining gray and a half-smile playing across his face. Havar didn't know what to do - he wanted to run or shout for help or do something, but he seemed rooted to the spot, sitting up in bed, staring down the distance at the man who'd made his nightmares real.

Havar immediately sensed his own vulnerability - did anyone know that Yavisk was here? Wasn't there someone he could call? Who could help get him out of here? He wasn't even dressed, still in bed. A sitting duck. Havar felt his breath start to come in heaves. He'd thought he was safe here. Yavisk took a step towards him and breathing got harder suddenly. The older man's face went a bit white, his smile faded.

"Havar, are you alright?"

He didn't answer because no, he wasn't, because the world was going funny colors and there was black at the edges of his vision and Yavisk was standing in his bedroom with something unreadable in his eyes. Havar put his hands around his throat, tried to open it, tried to squeeze, to make breathing easier. It didn't work. He began to panic.

"Havar, stop this. You're making yourself hysterical. Calm down and breathe."

Havar looked up. He didn't know what was happening, where he was, where they'd take him, where he was meant to go or who he was supposed to be. But this, he knew. This man he knew. Yavisk, as his commander, he knew. Yavisk had both hands on the bed now, was leaning over to look Havar sternly in the eyes.

"Breathe evenly. One in, one out, and look at me."

Commands were a thing he could follow. Commands were a thing he knew. One in, one out. Those were his orders. He did his best to complete them.

"That's better. Keep it up. Twice more now."  
Yavisk began to move towards him slowly, his voice still soothing. When Havar's breathing was even again, ten minutes had passed and Yavisk was sitting on his bed.

"How are you feeling today, Havar?"  
Havar stared at him.  
"Have you been sick?"  
Hav shook his head. Yavisk grunted.  
"Have you eaten?"  
He shook his head again.  
"They haven't fed you?"  
A negative answer.  
Yavisk narrowed his eyes.  
"I will bring you a meal."  
"I'm not hungry." Havar said quickly.  
"It's good for you." Yavisk responded, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Havar swallowed down the knot in his throat and kept his eyes carefully on the comforter, the only barrier between them. Silently, he began to pray. Please don't leave me with him, please don't let him stay, please don't let him touch me...everything got melded together, mixed up into one incomprehensible plea.

Yavisk was still talking. Havar didn't hear a thing he said. Then he was getting up, going into the hallway, and Havar could hear him making a phone call. In a moment, he returned just as Havar was reaching behind himself to switch his pillows because this one had gotten too hot from his body, and when he turned back, Yavisk's eyes were dark like they were before and Havar froze mid-movement to watch him make a decision. Yav idly twirled his uniform hat in his hands.  
"I've got to get back to the base."  
Havar refused to feel relieved until he was gone.

"I'll be back after dinner to check on you."  
Havar maintained his reserve.  
"Is there anything you'd like to say to your friends?"

This startled him, broke his concentration, caught him off-guard. His friends. The men he'd served with, worked with, grown up with, now suddenly all like strangers at a distance to him. He choked a little on his words.  
"Tell them -"  
Yavisk's eyes flashed a warning.  
"Tell them I said hi. Tell them I'm fine."  
Yavisk nodded.  
"They'll be very glad to hear that, I'm sure."

~:~

Jesse spent the morning in a corner of the resource center, flipping through books on poetry and film, both things considered acceptable for carriers and still permitted.

Back in his room, he counted the hours until Michael would come, wound his music box, and let it play to the silence.

At noon, the car came and Jesse signed out by the west gate and got inside. Michael was inside, already waiting. He motioned to the driver and they headed off. Jesse could feel his heart pounding. Michael looked troubled. They drove for long minutes; they passed out of the Centre, then out of town, off into the woods, the mountains, past trees, onto dirt roads, into nowhere. They stopped outside of Rowe House.

Jesse's pulse was a hundred and twenty beats a minute. He didn't know for sure that it was Rowe House (no pictures were allowed), but Michael's silence and the heavy tension were enough to tell him where he was. He looked quickly at Michael.

"Look at it, Jesse."

Reluctantly, Jesse turned his head back to the window. Unexpectedly, a piercing scream rent the air outside, came loud through the windows and the fog. The scream of a living death. Jesse leapt backwards, pressed himself into the seat, as far as he could get from the reality outdoors. Michael looked unperturbed. He stared himself at the unassuming brick building before turning suddenly to Jesse, his expression changed now into one of rage.

"This is where they wanted to send you, Jesse. This is what they wanted me to do to you. Do you have any idea what they wanted me to do to you?"  
Jesse shook his head.  
"That's right, you don't. And I pray every day, Jesse, that you never do."  
Michael turned back to the window, was silent for a minute more.  
"I worked here once, Jesse, did you know that?"  
Another scream, this one more tortured than the last. Michael went on talking.  
"I worked here once, when I was new and disobedient and sure I had all the answers to getting things done my way. They assigned me to be a guard."  
Michael faced him again.  
"I've seen things you can't imagine in your worst nightmares, Jesse. I've seen things that would make even the observer pray for death and count the minutes until it came."  
Jesse's heart beat triple pace.  
"Please don't make me do those things to you, Jesse."

Michael was near to him suddenly, in the car, one hand on Jesse's face.  
"I care a lot about you, Jesse, do you understand that? I can't stand to see you hurt."  
Jesse nodded.  
"But I can't keep covering for you, Jesse. I can only protect you so far. At some point, someone's going to stop listening to me. And they're going to take you away from me. And they're going to bring you here."

Distantly, there was the grinding sound of a machine being activated.  
"And if that ever happens, Jesse, you'll be responsible for killing us both."  
Michael stared hard at him, little lines of worry creasing around his eyes and mouth. After a minute, he released Jesse and sat back, deflated, in the car, his gaze again out the window.

"I can't let that happen. So what I'm going to have to do next, Jesse, is going to hurt you, yes."  
Jesse started to shiver, very faintly, in his seat.  
"But it's going to hurt me a lot more."

At the Centre, Michael whipped him. Ten strikes, all across his back, and Jesse cried like a child when he was done. Michael said he was sorry and held, very tightly, onto him, put his forehead to Jesse's face and had misery written all across his eyes. Back at the Centre, at home in Jesse's room, Michael made him show his marks to Kosin, who smirked his approval, complimented Michael, and left.

This part really made Jesse cry, and he wondered why it seemed suddenly so hard for him to get a hold of who he used to be. He was a soldier, for God's sake.

When Kosin was gone, Michael kissed him and said he was sorry, and Jesse kissed him back harder and after a few minutes, they found it hard to stop, and so Jesse pushed him away and got up to put a chair under the door. Michael watched him, steadily, raised up on one elbow, as he came from the door over to the bed, and made a face as Jesse asked him, anxiously, if he wanted to use any condoms. Michael told him no, and he saw Jesse swallow, but didn't care if it made him nervous or afraid; Michael wanted him, all of him, wanted to be inside of him and with him completely, without barriers or keeping anything apart.

He offered to let Jesse be on top, but Jess turned it down and laid unceremoniously on his back instead. Michael stared at him for a moment, then went to work kissing him and working his clothes off. Jesse flinched when Michael started to unbutton his pants, and squeezed his forearm a little bit, but then bit his lip and seemed OK to go on.

It occurred to Michael that Jesse had probably never been with anyone this way before, and so he worked quickly to undress them both, and when they were naked, took his time to show Jesse all the places where he liked to be touched. Jess was hesitant, his grasp awkward and reluctant, the facade of wit and irreverence gone. Michael tried to warm him, calm him in turn, with kisses and little nips and soothing words and promises.

When it seemed that Jesse was ready, Michael slipped inside of him. He took his time and tried to make it easy, although in the end, a little pain was unavoidable. Jesse accepted this with valiance, and Michael greeted his acquiescence with praise and sweet little words that misted away in the November cool.

Being inside Jesse, he whispered, his breath taut against Jesse's ear, was better than anything he'd ever had in his life. Jesse nodded, the nearest response he could offer to a smile, and quietly stored the compliment away for later. Afterwards, when Michael had left and work had been put away for the evening, the first rain fell.


	25. November 12

On Saturday, Jesse was up early again. He called Michael before breakfast and agreed to meet him in the cafeteria for a meal. At seven, he made his way downstairs. Michael was already waiting for him. He smiled warmly at Jesse, looked him discreetly over. Jesse wouldn't meet his eyes.  
"Morning."  
"Good morning. How do you feel?"  
Jesse shrugged, feeling his face start to get hot again.  
"I'm OK."  
Wisely, Michael eased off the topic.  
"Are you hungry?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"I guess so."

Michael raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He got up and retrieved two orange juices for them and a selection from a plate of bagels. Jesse sipped the juice but turned the bagel down. Michael acquired for himself some eggs and rice milk, and chewed cautiously as Jesse rolled the glass of juice between his fingers and didn't talk. The cafeteria was still quiet this early in the morning, and they had a degree of privacy in their space. Suddenly, Jesse asked, without looking up at him.  
"Are you going to want to do that again?"  
Michael took a minute to answer.  
"Not all the time, Jesse, but yes."  
Jesse looked sick, began squeezing the glass in his hands. Michael quietly chewed on his eggs and watched him.  
"Because maybe we don't have to do that every time I see you."  
Michael nodded.  
"You're right. We don't. We can only do it sometimes, like when you say you'd like to or that it's alright." Jesse looked quickly at him, then away.  
"I don't want you to feel disappointed."  
"I won't."  
"Or unfulfilled."  
"I won't."  
"But it just hurt and... I don't know if I - _how often_ I want to do that again."  
Michael swallowed his eggs.  
"The first time can hurt a lot."

Jesse's breath hitched a little, so Michael set down his fork and covered both of Jesse's hands in his own.  
"Hey. Take it easy. Calm down."  
Jesse stared at their hands and tried to take slow breaths in.  
"Please don't be mad at me."  
"I won't. I'm not. But I think you need to give yourself a little time. Last night was just an introduction, OK? Just a beginning. It won't always be like that. And it won't always be...uncomfortable."

Jesse kept his eyes down on the table.  
"I'm really sorry. About everything."  
Michael frowned, squeezed their hands together.  
"Don't say that. You don't have to be sorry. Nothing's wrong, OK? You're doing everything right. Everything is OK."  
Jesse nodded.  
"I didn't mean to wake you up this morning."  
"I always get up early."  
"But Vichy's not here and I didn't want to eat by myself."  
"I like eating with you."  
"And it's really hard because ever since I got in trouble that last time, nobody but my peer group really wants to be seen with me. Not that they did before, anyway, but I'm really by myself now."

Michael's expression got a little stony, but he kept his cool.  
"And I - I gave my apology note to Ortega, like you said, and I think we're OK now, we're friends again, so maybe, if you want, we can all hang out sometime, like me and you and him and James."  
Michael didn't respond to this.  
"I mean, because after Vichy gets married, he'll go far away like he is now and then I'll be alone again."  
Michael frowned. Jesse looked up and met his eyes.  
"I just don't think I want to be alone again."


	26. November 13

Yavisk hadn't come back to check on him Friday night; in fact, he hadn't been back all weekend, and Havar was feeling a bit on edge.

Sunday morning was chapel, a short, semi-mandatory service during which Havar quietly repeated every prayer in Arabic under his breath. After chapel, his temporary minder took him to lunch in the main cafeteria and introduced him, for the first time, to his peer group and leader.

The group leader was a young Northerner with black hair and black eyes, and skinny, narrow features in a long face. He stood almost a foot taller than Havar, but moved with a calm, fluid grace that kept his height from being overwhelming. His smile was gentle, shy, but there was an overt sexuality in his presence, in his walk and the easy fit of natori to his hips; Havar had felt a minor attraction immediately upon seeing him, but he'd decided to ignore it and let it go away. The group leader had smiled at him, showed a row of perfect pearl teeth, and had given his name as Awni-Ra.

In the cafeteria, Awni sat alone with him at a small side table and explained some of what was going on. He reached into a knapsack on the floor by his chair and pulled out a pretty, decorated bag containing a folder, a handbook of rules, and a number of other, more personal things that Havar had blushed at but seemed to leave Awni unperturbed. They had a frank discussion about what would be expected from him, from the Centre, and from Yavisk, and Havar had been proud of himself for managing to hold it together all the way through. Awni went on to tell Havar a little about himself; he was 27, born in the hinterland, had two brothers, one of which was a carrier, and a fiancé who was a weapons officer on base, due to be married nine months from now. Awni asked a few probing questions about Havar, but backed off when Havar seemed to close off and turn away. Tomorrow, though, he promised, after we get you moved into group housing, we'll have to talk. Havar nodded and picked at his food.

By evening, he was tired of waiting on edge for Yavisk to come. He emptied the bag that Awni had given him and laid out the contents on his bed. A folder with intro papers and a schedule, a blank notebook for classes and some pens, a pair of black underwear with lace and the CEC logo on them, a box of tampons and maxi pads, a book of carrier anatomy, a bible, a bottle of vitamins, some citrus-scented shampoo and conditioner, a book called The Surrendered Wife, and a ten-pack bundle of condoms.

The last thing he noticed was a little box of candy and soaps, obviously put together by hand, with a note tied to the top that had his name on it. 'From Awni-Ra', the note said, scrawled in a slanting hand, 'Best wishes and welcome.' Havar felt suddenly, extremely lonely.

~:~

At nine, the knock came. Havar got up, heart pounding, and went to the door. There was no one there. The knock sounded again, and after a confused minute, Havar realized it was coming from the tiny window that sat high on the outward-facing window of his room. Cautiously, he approached it.

"Hello?"  
A mumbled sound was his reply. He wondered if he should call a chaperone.  
"State your name." he demanded, an edge to his voice that he hadn't heard before. He felt so vulnerable here, in a strange place with strange rules, without his gun, and with no one to back him up. Another knock.  
"What?"  
The voice was clearer, still muffled, but sounding urgent. He approached the window, dragged a chair over to it so he could look through.  
"Fuck!"  
He almost fell backwards, then regained his balance and looked again. Brian was outside of his window.

Havar made quick work of figuring out the lock, and pushed the window open as far as it would go.  
"Get in here! What are you doing here? Someone could have seen you - what are you doing here?"  
He used both hands to help Brian pull himself through the window, tumble ungraciously across the desk and down onto the floor. From the ground, Brian smiled up at him.

"Came to check up on you." he got to his feet. "I heard what happened - everyone did, and, well, you're our friend, Granger, no matter what...else you are. We wanted to be sure that you were OK. Are you OK?"

Brian's gaze was shy, but appraising, and Havar suddenly felt embarrassed. For a few moments, he'd forgotten his situation, forgotten that he was Havar the Carrier and not Havar the Soldier anymore. Brian was scrutinizing his face.  
"You look OK. Not hurt or anything."  
"I'm fine." he swallowed, wanting to ask the question but fearing the answer. "What did - what did everyone say about me? What do they think happened?"  
Brian exhaled in a puff and whistled low.  
"They think you got found out. They think that Yavisk caught you. They think he - " he stopped there, cast a glance up at Havar, who was pale. "Did he?"

Havar couldn't answer for a second, and his hesitation was all Brian needed.  
"Fucking hell."  
"The Centre thinks I'm pregnant." he just blurted it out; he didn't know why or where it came from, but it bubbled up and he had to tell someone and then it was just out there. Brian stared at him for a minute.  
"And are you?"  
Havar shook his head furiously.  
"I'm not. I swear I'm not."  
Brian nodded.  
"Good. Because that would really complicate what we're about to do."  
Havar took two steps back and stared at him.  
"What?"  
"Yeah, this isn't just a break-in, Granger. This is a rescue mission."


	27. November 14

**Monday**

The entire Centre was on High Alert. Every peer group was in lockdown, no visitors were allowed in or out, check-ins were required every 45 minutes, and the number of chaperones around the campus had been doubled. The halls were filled with angry officials; high ranking officers paced every corridor and cranny, and Awni was dragged in front of every tribunal and court of law that could be put together in 24 hours. A carrier had never been lost, not once, since the beginning of the program; every man who'd ever been registered was in some way accounted for, and there were a lot of people very invested in making sure it stayed that way.

It only took half an hour for them to figure out that four people were missing from base and the Centre; within an hour, two of those had been accounted for. The only two still gone were Carrier Havar Granger and Officer Brian Inderson. There were conferences immediately; Brian and Havar's faces went up on every comp screen, every projector, and in every hallway in a fifty-mile radius; images, descriptions, and summaries of both were sent out to national command centers from the Southern territories to the Hinterland Corridor. Beneath Havar's picture was a reward for his safe return; beneath Brian's were the words Dead or Alive.

~:~

Brian had been prepared for them to treat it as a kidnapping, but he wasn't prepared for how quickly things would progress. He and Havar had headed south first, intending to cross the mountain range before heading for the coast. From there, they'd take a boat into the Caribbean, then go west, and buy passage through the canal to the west. From there, they could reach Baja, and from there, find passage to India. Traveling by land, Brian had told him, would be an impossibility. There would be posters out for them, and warrants, and the dire likelihood that someone might turn them in. He was right, it turned out, but his timetables were just a little bit off. There were twenty task forces out the very next day, and by the end of the week, he anticipated that carrier safety activists would be calling for more.

All they had to do was make it to the Canal. In the State of the Canal, there would be no such trouble. And in India, he'd assured Havar, kindly pushing a curl behind his ear as they rode in the middle of the night down the backroads of the Shenandoah Valley, there would be no such laws at all. Havar would be free, and Brian would be fine. Havar had believed him, nodded his head and followed silently behind Brian's lead as they disappeared into the darkness.


	28. November 15

**Tuesday**

CEC access had been strictly limited, and no visits were allowed off-campus for any reason. Vichy was back at home, smiling and seemingly relaxed from his sojourn into the south. Classes went on as usual, and Sloane spent the morning teaching the basics of infant development, but with all the energy focused on search and retrieval missions, James and Clint had wrangled the day off, and arrived in the afternoon to spend some time in the group room. Sloane had initially turned them off, but James suggested that a new perspective might be good for the carrier counseling class, and Clint strongarmed him a bit until he conceded.

It was rattling to see either of them there, and particularly both at once, and Jesse was reminded again of how close he'd come to Rowe House. He spoke politely when James greeted him, but made well sure to stay on the far side of the room from those two. James, however, had other plans, and called he and Vichy over. Vichy didn't want anything to do with them, but at the end of the day, James had specifically told him to come and sit, and an officer's request was not to be ignored.

Jesse sat and listened distantly to the conversation that everyone was having about Vichy's wedding, poring over his own mixed feelings about James. James had brought with him Ortega's little dog, Torréon, a small black-and-white fur bundle who was delighted to go anywhere that Ortega was going to be, and was currently occupying himself with chewing gently on Jesse's toe. Jesse moved his foot and went back to contemplating the officer.

James had, after all, been a deciding factor in keeping him out of Rowe House, and for that, Jesse would always be grateful. But the way he'd treated Ortega...when Jesse came back to the room, the wedding discussion was still going on, and Vichy mentioned a date, which prompted James to kiss Ortega's nose and remind him that their own wedding should be taken care of soon. He had, he pointed out, wanted it to take place this month, and although minor delays were fine, he still felt they should have the ceremony before Ortega began to show. His hand slipped down to rub Tega's stomach gently at this, and Jesse looked up just in time to catch a look of longing fleet across Clint's steely face. Sloane sat tensely in his lap, petting Torréon with one absentminded hand.


	29. November 16

**Wednesday**

The port was where they had the first of their trouble. Brian's friend, bosun of a small boat that took minor tours down to the Caribbean, had gotten the flu and was on strict bedrest in town. He'd sent his brother to the meeting spot to relay the message, his apologies, and an invitation to come have dinner at his mother's house on the outskirts of town. Brian had thanked the kid for his help, ignored the odd look he'd given them, and graciously refused the invitation of dinner.

It would be too dangerous to travel through town in the daylight, not so long as the Institute had their pictures posted at every stopping point across the nation. They decided to linger for a day by the shore, camp out on the beach, and leave to look for Brian's friend in the dim, early morning. Hopefully, he'd be a bit better by then; maybe back on his feet, or at least able to talk to them himself. Brian needed him to get them on the boat unchecked.

In the offing, Brian watched the lights of ships and small boats twinkle by and disappear into the dusk. He imagined one of those lights belonging to their boat; the boat they would have been on had things not gone awry in only the first leg of the journey. He wondered when the next boat was leaving; he hadn't thought to ask and hadn't planned on missing the first. He'd made sure he had supplies enough for a delay, but not a long one. If there were no sooner boat...he strategized to himself as they sat side by side in the sand, Havar drawing nervous little circles between his knees with a stick.

Havar had been quiet since they'd left the bosun's brother, but suddenly he spoke.  
"Why are you doing this for me?"  
Brian looked over at him, startled out of his thoughts.  
"You're my friend. I wouldn't leave you behind."

He looked back out at the ocean. Havar watched him quietly for a moment before turning back to poke at the wet sand again. The tide was coming in, and gray wind was whipping foam and sand and sea mist into their faces.

"What are we going to do when we get to India?"  
Brian shrugged.  
"Farm work at first, I bet. Then anything I can find in the city. I've got enough training to work as a teacher, soldier, transporter, whatever."  
Havar's jaw twitched.  
"And what will I do?"  
Brian glanced sideways at him.  
"Whatever you want, I guess."  
"So we'll just get there and go our separate ways? I'll live in some part of India, and you'll live in another, we'll never see each other again?"  
Brian frowned.  
"That doesn't make any sense. We were roommates before, at Academy. We can be roommates again."  
Havar spoke carefully.  
"So we'll live together."  
"Yeah, I guess so. Makes sense, doesn't it?" he glanced again at Havar. "Besides, friends stick together."  
Havar felt his stomach do something funny.  
"Yeah, exactly. We'll be like a team."  
"Yup."  
"Live together, work together...it'll be just like here."  
"Just like the old days."

Havar waited just long enough, then asked:  
"Kind of like a family?"  
Brian looked at Havar with surprise, but quickly covered it.  
"Yeah, I guess so."

Now Havar turned his gaze out, to the horizon, with Brian.  
"It's kinda sad, isn't it? We're the only family we'll ever have, Inderson. Either of us. We're going into exile, in India."  
They both sat in silent reflection.  
"Did you ever want a family, Indy?"  
Brian hesitated.  
"A real family, I mean. Kids and a house. Someone to come home to. The whole set."  
Brian shrugged uneasily.  
"Everyone does, don't they?"  
"Not me. The minute we get to India, I'm finding a doctor and getting this whole...mistake fixed."

Brian's look was fleeting, almost unnoticeable, but Havar caught it. It was fear, and beneath that, rage. Then it was gone. Blankness and a furrowed brow were in its place. Brian scoffed.  
"Even in India, they won't do that for you."  
Havar shrugged.  
"I'll find a way."  
As he got up to make camp, he felt Brian watching him from the shore.


	30. November 17

**Thursday**

The bosun was missing in the morning. Brian used a pay phone to check for him at the local hospitals. He'd been admitted to Bayside General Infirmary a little after midnight. Brian swore, slammed the phone once, twice, three times into the booth, hoping in his heart to break the glass. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Just a setback. A strategy shift. He pondered in his mind how many ways he could acquire a boat. He walked back to the shore.

He and Havar had moved camp at dawn, hoping that not remaining in the same place would be enough to avoid attracting attention. When he got back, Havar was sitting on Brian's pack, a ration balanced on his knees. He took one look at Brian's face and knew. Brian sat down, waited for him to finish his breakfast.

"We're going to steal a boat."  
Havar shook his head.  
"No, we're not. We're going to quit water travel because it leaves us vulnerable; we can't move faster than the Union ships, and we can't take anything small enough to go unnoticed, not for as far as we need to go. We need to travel by land, only quietly, keeping to the backroads, camping, and walking if it comes down to it, to cross the border. We need to get the truck out of here, because sooner or later - more likely sooner - one of these old townies is bound to notice that we're unfamiliar, when we appeared, and who we look like. It only takes one to put two and two together, and when they do, we'll have less than an hour to get the hell out of dodge. So let's go now. We need to head west, then split south through the mountains."

Brian frowned over this proposition.  
"We'll have to double back, go along our route, to get to a passable road into the hills."  
Havar shrugged.  
"If you think that's best. We could also lead north, then return south. That may help, for subterfuge."  
Brian contemplated this.  
"Yes. Better than we double back. We'll leave just after dusk."

~:~

"I just don't understand what you do that makes yours act like yours, and mine act like mine."  
James scoffed.  
"Well, I don't beat him all the time for no reason - that's probably the first part."  
Clint gave James a look of annoyance. James looked back evenly.  
"There are more effective ways to elicit obedience, if that's what you're after."

Clint shrugged and went back to staring out of the window of the Jeep. A few minutes passed between them.  
"But, I mean, you - " he cut himself off, and James waited for him to say more. "Sloane _is_ obedient and everything, but..." A few more minutes passed in quiet, then Clint spoke again, not looking at James.  
"You made yours _like_ you."  
Clint sounded surprisingly sincere, and so James left off the snarky response and tried to offer comfort instead.  
"Sloane likes you."  
"No, he doesn't. He listens to me, but he hates me. It's why I haven't...gone through with it yet. Knock him up. Marry him. I don't care if he's super-fucking-happy or not, but I don't want to do it if he _hates_ me. It'll fuck up our kid, won't it? If his mom hates his dad."

His voice grew distant, and James listened to see if more was forthcoming, but Clint simply drifted off and didn't continue. His question lingered. James had no answer for it. More moments passed.  
"I just want him to stop acting like a bitch and be nice for once."  
Clint added, abruptly. James raised both eyebrows in surprise.  
"Sloane is very nice to you."  
"Only because he's scared of me; not because he really likes to do it."

James wanted to point out that frequent, occasionally public, beatings tended to create that kind of distance, but he bit his tongue.  
"Maybe you should try being a little nice to him, first. Maybe he just doesn't know how."  
Clint nodded, peering through binoculars out of the window of the jeep.  
"Yeah. I'll give it a shot."

~:~

The sun was low in the sky, shadows growing long over the shore. Havar had bathed in the sunset, and now stood waiting by the campsite for Brian to return. They took the footpaths back through town, into the forest where they'd hidden the truck, loaded it and got on their way. They avoided major highways; notices of their vehicle would probably be out and about. Gas only lasted a few hundred miles, but they were safely into the mountains by then and hidden on the back roads.

A little after nine, they pulled into a trading post high in the mountains. The air was crisp; the sun came brightly through the trees and danced patterns of light on the dirty windshield and on the hood of the truck and across Havar's skin where he leaned, sleeping, against the door. Brian parked the truck in front of the low, rickety-looking, one story Trade Shop. Havar didn't stir, and so he decided to leave him sleeping, got out, and went in to the shop.

When Havar woke, the truck wasn't moving. He blinked his eyes and looked to his left. Brian was gone. Everything seemed quiet; he heard birds in the trees outside and the sun shone warmly in front of him. He looked up and saw that they were at a trade shop. Brian had gone for supplies, then. He wondered what had woken him. Then a sudden, harsh tapping to his right alerted him to the fact that there was someone outside of the truck. Cautiously, he looked up, and from the corner of his eye saw someone else approaching from the left side of the truck. A coordinated attack. The figure moved, came to the door as if to open it, and he got a brief, momentary glimpse of his face. The man looked disheveled; his hair was thick and long, hanging down in dirty strings around a thickly bearded face. His skin was sunburnt and streaked gray in places with dirt. He wasn't smiling, and his eyes looked mean and wild. Havar silently watched him. When he put a hand on the driver's side door handle, Havar leapt for the lock, and as he did so, the door to his right flew open.

"I got 'im, boys!"  
Havar felt hands close around his ankle; he kicked viciously out with the opposite leg.  
"Get the fuck off of me!"

The hands tightened and Havar grabbed hold of Brian's seat belt, clinging to it for leverage, and twisted to see who was holding him. A man, in about his late thirties, no less disheveled, but blessedly less insane-looking than the other guy, was grinning widely at Havar, putting all of his considerable strength into pulling him out of the truck.

"Oh, hell no, princess, you ain't gettin' away."

Havar's eyes widened at that and he struggled harder, but the guy was definitely bigger than the skinny one who'd come from the left, and the sound of approaching footsteps did not weigh things in his favor. Havar kicked again, aiming for the burly guy's face, and began running through exit strategies in his mind. The guy dodged the kick and laughed as he caught Havar's other ankle in his grip.

"Hoo-we! We got us a little firecracker here!"

Havar felt panic mix evenly with anger in his heart, then groaned a little as the guy yanked him roughly, pulling his hands free of the belt, and slamming his tailbone against the doorframe as he dragged him out of the truck and into the dirt.

"Hivey, hold the damn thing down!"  
The skinny guy moved to comply, and there were a few precious seconds where Havar was free, and he took them, bolting through the only open space he saw, towards the trees.

"Inderson! Inderson! Brian! Bri - " the tackle caught him off-guard, and he landed hard on a pile of kindling firewood just at the forest line.  
"I got it, Crow! Get over here; it's fightin'!"

Another beard was on top of him, his weight heavy and breath rank against Havar's face. He groaned, shifted so that he didn't feel like his kidneys were being punctured, and tried to roll away. Before he could get anywhere, the one they'd called Crow was back on him, working quickly to tie his wrists together behind his back. Seeing an opportunity, Havar leaned back and slammed his head into the new beard's face. The guy yelped and fell back, swearing. Havar struggled to get to his feet, but Crow held him by his wrists, dragged him off the stick pile to the dirt. The new beard lunged for Havar, but he dodged it and Crow stopped the blow.

"Enough! Enough! Alright now, I said enough!"  
The new beard was seething, blood dripping down his face.  
"I'm gon' kill it."  
A fourth man appeared from behind the truck, coming to stand across from Crow.  
"You ain't gon' touch her, she's mine."  
"I am nobody's!"  
Four pairs of eyes looked speculatively over him.  
"Nobody's, huh? Not even that nice fella in there, that Brian's?" Crow asked, indicating the trade shop with his head. Havar hesitated, not wanting to shoot himself in the foot, but unwilling to risk giving up too much information. He spat on the ground and licked some of the blood away where he'd hit his face on the stick pile.  
"I don't know what you're talking about. I am an enlisted member in the Union Land Forces. Private Inderson is in my crew."  
Crow laughed and pushed Havar so that he was forced to back up.  
"That the truth? Well, if that don't just cat my dog. Well, I guess we three have stumbled upon y'all's little secret, then, ain'it?"

Havar stared evenly at him.  
"I don't know what you mean, but I know that assault on enlisted Union members isn't tolerated. And I know you wouldn't like us to make more trouble for you than it's worth, out here in this peaceful little place you got, far from the eyes of the Union government."  
Crow's eyes suddenly turned cold.  
"You threatenin' me, girl?"  
Havar narrowed his eyes.  
"Just making conversation."  
Crow huffed.  
"Well, I tell you what - why don't we just take you two's ID numbers, call 'em on in to the sheriff, let him know you're here."  
Fear touched Havar's stomach and it must have reached his eyes, because Crow pressed this point of weakness.  
"Unless, of course, you've got some reason why we shouldn't?"  
Havar was silent, and Crow smiled.  
"Thought so."

Then Crow put one hand heavily on Havar's neck, pinning him back against the truck, and with the other, began to unbuckle his belt. Havar tried to knee him, but before he could even get balance to do so, a pop like an explosion rang out, Crow's smile froze in place, and he began to keel over. He hit the ground, and suddenly, blood bubbled out from his back. Before any of them had fully comprehended what had happened, seven more pops and the skinny guy and the beard with the bloody nose dropped. Havar leapt back, frightened, still tied. The fourth guy broke for cover, running off behind the building, but three more ear-splitting cracks and he dropped halfway.

Brian stepped out of the trees. His face was pale, and he carried a sack in his left hand.  
"Get in the truck."  
Havar scrambled to do so, but his hands were still tied, and so Brian ran over, cut his ropes with a pocketknife, and let him go. The trip to the road was silent Brian drove with one hand, the other resting ominously on his pistol.  
"We have to change our plan. We have to double back."


	31. November 18

**Friday**

Ortega's date was set for the 3rd of December. Vichy's was in January. Sloane made them all cookies to celebrate, and James and Clint dropped by again, in the afternoon. James, once again, brought Torréon; Clint had a gift. He had introduced the fact, almost shyly, and Jesse hadn't missed the flinch or quick intake of breath when he moved his hands suddenly to thrust it toward Sloane.

Sloane peered at it for a moment as if he suspected it might bite him.  
"Open it."  
Sloane glanced up at Clint, then back down at the box in his hands. Clint seemed excited. It occurred, sickeningly, to Sloane that maybe this was just something to embarrass him in front of the group.

"Maybe I can open it later, when it's just us."  
Clint looked annoyed.  
"Open it, Sloane. Don't be so fucking difficult."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sloane saw Jesse tense and Suleiman shift both feet to the ground.  
"OK, OK."  
His fingers were twitching a little bit as he tried to open the paper; he was worried that Clint would accuse him of wasting it, but he didn't seem to care when he gave up and just tore into it.

Inside was a plain white box. He lifted the lid. Inside were three purple shells, tied together with what appeared to be fishing string. Sloane didn't understand.

"What is it?"  
Clint sighed impatiently and picked it up from the box, holding it up for Sloane's inspection.  
"It's a necklace."  
"Oh. It's very nice." Sloane offered quickly. Clint frowned a little.  
"The shells - I had them. Do you know them? They're from the beach we went to in the summertime. Do you remember that trip?"  
Sloane tilted his head.  
"I remember the beach..."  
Clint exhaled in annoyance.  
"Yeah, well. The beach was cold as fuck, even though it was July already. It sucked. But the trip was alright."  
He set the necklace down in Sloane's right hand.  
"The whole time we were at the beach, we never had a fight."

~:~

Havar had been missing for four days now, and Anton Yavisk wanted him back. On base, the commander was fuming. He'd been kept informed of the developments in the hunt for Havar, but his requests for control of the program had been denied. The authorities were worried about his decision-making right now; Yavisk was infuriated, and fury made him a liability. He'd broken two privates' jaws since Monday, and had been taken off training until further notice. Now, in his room, he was pacing and cursing in his mother's language.

Across from him, in the large, dark wing chair by the window, his closest friend and confidant, Miljan Cubrovic, sat and steepled his hands. Miljan was a man of whom many men were afraid. His imposing build, coupled with the inscrutable stoicism of his expression and the peculiar, accented, calm way that he spoke, gave him a formidable appearance. He lifted his glass of dark wine and settled into the heavy leather chair as if it had been built for him.

"Easy, _prijatelj_. He'll be found and returned to you shortly. The Institute is very interested in your little bride, and how he's managed to get away. There are a thousand men after him. They will find him. There is no need for worry."  
"The bodies in the mountain were a clue, I know it, Miljan. They're not far from here, I sense it. If we searched for them, we could find them."  
Miljan stared out of the window, then took another sip from his glass.  
"You do not trust your people to find him?"  
Miljan laid an extra emphasis on the question, and Anton bristled.  
"Don't start that with me tonight, prijatelj." he spoke the last word with some annoyance. "I trust them with my life, but...I believe a private operation would be better suited to this task."  
Miljan inclined his head and finished his wine.  
"Then I suppose we ought to organize a hunting party."

~:~

Brian had pulled the truck off into the woods a few hours back and given it a hasty paint-job, and now they went on, driving along the backroads through the mountains, heading directly towards Institute territory, preparing to turn south with the setting sun. They'd stopped, more carefully this time, at another trading post and stocked up on gas. The nights were getting cold, and Havar pulled his hat down around his ears. The truck rumbled on.  
"I think we should steer south before we get close; less risk than going south after."  
Havar nodded and nestled down in the truck.

~:~

Miljan had a team of twenty, himself and Anton included, assembled just after nightfall. They wore black mission suits, mask and gloves included; Miljan had demanded this. He was trained in reconnaissance. They took four large black jeeps; two with separated drivers' seats and suicide doors, opening the back to three seats facing each other on either side. One vehicle was intended for Miljan's possession, the other for Anton's. When Anton opened the rear door of Miljan's vehicle to drop equipment, he was startled to see a slim, dark-haired carrier in a natori there. The carrier shrank back from him. Miljan arrived behind him.

"Who is this?"  
Miljan checked his handgun, glanced over at the carrier.  
"This is Awni-Ra. He's Havar's peer group leader, and John Killian's fiancée." Anton frowned.  
"So what's he doing in the jeep?"  
Miljan holstered his gun.  
"He's here to help ensure us that your little bride behaves."

~:~

Brian banked the truck right, pulling off into an access road as headlights appeared in the distance.  
"Fuck!"  
Havar shook his head and sat up.  
"It wasn't anything, Brian. Just somebody passing." Brian sighed, tried to pull himself together.  
"I don't know if we should get back on the major road, even at night."  
Havar thought a long time.  
"We need to get some distance. We need to make up the time we lost back there. If we don't take the main roads, we'll waste gas and time and end up getting caught."

Brian thought this over for a minute, set his jaw, and turned back on to the road.

~:~

They checked the compound first; working concentrically, one hundred yards apart, scanning the area first with infrared, then going by foot to points of interest. The compound and Centre campus were cleared by ten, and they reconvened at the eastern gates for the second part of the plan. Miljan met in the jeep with Anton.

"If the bodies on the mountain are related to them, then they have gone east and are at the shore by now. Anton, you trained both of them. Where did they go?"  
Anton was poring over a map laid out on the seat beside him.  
"Inderson is an honor-seeker; he bites at the bit to prove his worth. He would have taken the wheel so Havar could hide if he needed to. Brian driving...he would have ventured south. He's fearful, would have taken a winding path of which he was sure before an unsecure, faster way. Inderson's family is from Louisa. No doubt he headed there, then veered for the coast."  
Miljan nodded.  
"And Havar would not have protested?"  
"He is slow to summon courage; he would not have disaccorded until late, perhaps after they were already at the shore."  
"The bodies in the mountains were not far from here; you think they travel slowly?"  
Anton shrugged.  
"Staying to back roads may slow them down. Inderson doesn't see well, can't quickly judge an attack at a distance. He would have kept to smaller spaces."  
"And your pet?"  
"Operates well in any conditions. His strength is quick strategy."

Miljan considered this.  
"Would he have made a change in plans?"  
Anton turned back to the map quickly.  
"If they had trouble in the mountains, he may have insisted on another route. Abandoned trying to reach the coast." Anton folded up the map suddenly. "He has to know that the Centre is looking for him. He is headed towards us now. I believe he intends to cross our path."

~:~

"How did they know what I was?" Havar asked, when they had been traveling in silence for some time.  
"The beard. You don't have one." Brian rubbed his own face where he was unshaven. "They were suspicious of me at first. I told them I'd had lice."

Havar was silent, staring out of the window.  
"Hey." Havar didn't look up. Brian tried again. "Hey, listen, it's going to be OK."  
Havar shrugged. Both of them glanced up as headlights appeared on the road. Brian tensed. Havar shook his head.  
"It's nothing, Brian. Just someone passing." Brian relaxed. The vehicle passed them going the opposite direction. Then, just past them, it slowed.

"Shit!"  
Brian slammed his foot into the accelerator, gassed it up the road. Havar was turned around in his seat, checking to see if the vehicle was following them. It seemed to have gone on its way. Brian was breathing hard beside him.  
"We gotta get off this road. We gotta go."  
"That's fine," Havar said calmly, "But we can't hit the access road now, if we've really been seen. It's too obvious. Keep going this way. We're close to the Bridge now, we can pull off around there and rethink."

Brian nodded, tried to calm his breathing, relax.  
"We need to lie low; we can think about getting out of the country when things have quieted. We need a place to hide out."  
Havar thought for a minute.  
"The old water processing house at the Cove. There's an underground partition, no longer in use. Kyle and I used to store shipments inside; it should be safe enough to keep us for now."  
Brian shook his head.  
"No! Thats close, way close, way too close, Granger!"  
"Calm down, Inderson, and get it together! Closer is better at this stage of the search! By now, they probably think we've made it to the coast; they'll be intensifying security around water travel and air space. They've searched their own space a thousand times over, and they won't be able to use machinery to look for us under the water. They'd have to go in by foot and we'd have warning, and can prepare. It's a good hideout. Get us there, **now**."

~:~

"We have a partial visual on a flat black truck, two agitated occupants. You think it's them, Anton?"  
Yavisk felt his heart soar.  
"I know it is. Where are they going?"  
John Killian handed the comm over to one of the lieutenants in the back.  
"Nowhere, right now. Stopped along the Rockbridge. I think they're stationary for now, sir."

Anton hung up and got on with Miljan.  
"Miljan, if they see them, then we have them. They're stopped. Let's go."  
"No, brother, wait. They won't stop where they are for long; they are replanning; making decisions. Wait, and see where they go. We may have more to gain from this than just your little carrier."  
The lieutenant's voice came through the dashboard again, worried.  
"Sir? They're turning off now. If we continue to pursue, we'll reveal ourselves."  
Anton swore.  
"That's fine, lieutenant. Take note of their direction and meet us at the railroad crossing."

~:~

They reached the Cove road a little before midnight.  
"Where to?"  
Havar directed him out, into the grass, across the field in the darkness towards the forest edge.  
"Pull off there, into the woods. We'll walk back to the entrance."

They parked in an overgrown gully, covering up the truck with as many branches and heavy vines as they could possibly find before climbing out to head towards the underground.

On the hill, Havar slipped, but Brian caught him by the hand and pulled him out of the ditch. At the top of the hill, Havar tried to take his hand back, but Brian didn't let go. They started out across the field.

~:~

At 12:07, the train passed noisily by the Cove. The clearing around the lake, normally pristine and so silent, was upended as it was for several minutes every night while the heavy black steam machine pounded through the space, a wide indigo line bisecting the field and splitting Havar's ears with its sound.

He wrested his hand free of Brian's grip and covered his ears. Brian looked at him and laughed a little, the first relaxed sound he'd made since their trip had begun. The train passed and Brian reached out to rejoin their hands as the tail end of it whisked past and revealed, on the other side of the tracks, four black jeeps sitting in a perfect line. The first revved its engine; all four flicked on their lights.

"Brian. _Run_."  
They headed for the entrance at a dead sprint, Havar leading the way.  
"Brian, run, and keep running! The door is there, hit it on the left and it will crack just enough to get yourself inside. Close it, turn your flashlight on, go get in the labyrinth, and hide!"

Havar was just about to turn back and lead them off when two jeeps accelerated past them. The door was coming closer. Then both jeeps turned, cut in front of them, and braked, blocking their path. They split to either side, but the third pulled up by Havar and four men jumped out and suddenly he was face down in the grass and felt the snick-slap of handcuffs going on and everyone around him was shouting. He lifted his head. Brian was still running, almost at the door, but eight men were behind him, in close pursuit.

"BRIAN!!!" he tried to shout a warning. Then a voice, from the darkness:  
"Turn him."  
The hands were flipping him over and he leaned on his elbow in the grass and looked up into the stony eyes of Anton Yavisk. All the memories came flooding back to him, and suddenly it seemed all so desperately, stupidly hopeless.  
"Release him. I have him."  
Yavisk put one booted foot on his neck and held him in place on the grass.  
The four men scooted eagerly away, off to join the chase. Yavisk leaned down, dragged Havar to his feet, and in a frighteningly tender tone asked:  
"And are you alright, my little Havar?"

Havar just stared at nothing, blinking, too scared to even speak.

Distantly, Havar heard the thud of bodies hitting the ground, triumphant calls and the sounds of a struggle. He dropped his head back down against the cold earth.

"We have him, sir!" A lieutenant came running over, excited, and Havar let out an involuntary wail and tried to jerk out of Yavisk's grasp. The man kept his hold easily, and leaned forward to whisper darkly in Havar's ear.

"If you cry out for him again, I'll make sure he suffers slowly."  
Havar was silent.

Yavisk dragged the carrier over to the vehicle, ignoring him as he tripped over his own feet, and threw him bodily into the backseat of the jeep.  
"Guard him." he hissed at the happy messenger. The man looked miserable at this.  
"But, sir, the traitor - "  
Yavisk took one look at the man's puppy dog face and laughed.  
"Fine. If you want to get a few in, cuff Havar to the car and go on."

Before Havar had even had time to process the fact that Awni-Ra was in the car he'd just ignominiously entered, he was cuffed to the raised u-loops in the floor. The door slammed again and the two officers were gone; he was alone with Awni-Ra, who was staring out the window with a trouble, sorrowful look on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Havar asked, peering at his cuffs to try to determine any weakness.  
"They - they made me come. I don't know why." Awni seemed to be trembling a little, and he kept dividing his time between looking out the window and checking on Havar. Eventually, the other carrier followed his gaze.

"What are you looking for?"  
"I want to know when they're coming back. So I can prepare."  
Havar looked up at him, puzzled, but Awni was still staring out the window and didn't notice.  
"They're going to kill him." Awni mumbled, "Oh, god, they're going to kill him."  
Havar felt panic well up in his veins.  
"No...no, it's fine. Don't worry about him. Now that he's subdued, they'll take him in for questioning. He might be beat up, but he'll be OK. And once he's in a stable location, I can rescue him just like he rescued me."  
Awni laughed, a tinny, mirthless sound.  
"Your friend is dead already. It's _us_ I'm worried about now."

Awni fidgeted with his hands, nervousness covering him like a blanket, making his face look drawn and sallow. Havar watched him for a moment, waiting for the beauty he'd seen before to come back. It didn't. Havar swallowed.  
"What's going to happen to us?"  
Awni didn't have to answer, because in that moment, he spotted four figures running towards the jeep.  
"Your husband is back."

Then the doors to the jeep were thrown open and Yavisk loomed, panting, in the doorway.  
"Did you fuck him??" His chin had an angry set and he was shouting, red-faced and disheveled, his fury in his face, in his eyes, in the clench of his hands at his sides.  
Awni shrank back fearfully, made himself into a small knot in the corner. Havar didn't know what to say, or do.  
"DID YOU FUCK HIM??"  
Yavisk was in his face now, and he pulled back as far as being cuffed to the floor would allow.  
"No! No! I didn't! I swear, I didn't!"  
He took a powerful backhand to the face.  
"You're lying! You're fucking lying to me!"  
Havar shook his head.  
"No! No, I swear to you! Brian's just my friend, I didn't fuck him!"  
Yavisk gave a beastly, low, short little laugh.  
" _Was_ your friend."

Then he released Havar from the floor and Awni cast a glance at the door, thinking maybe of bolting to another car, but Yavisk saw it out of the corner of his eye.  
"Don't you move, either. You've got something coming to you."  
Awni froze in place and Yavisk yanked Havar up, off the floor, and pushed him against the seat of the car. Havar started kicking immediately, and Yavisk cracked his face with another hit.

"Hey! You - hey! You keep fighting, and I'll knock you out, fuck you in the field, and let them all watch."  
Havar panted from exertion; his eyes flicked worriedly to Awni-ra, who was pale and didn't meet his gaze.  
"Awni can't help you. Spread your legs."  
Havar stared at him, shook his head in disbelief.  
"SPREAD YOUR LEGS AND FUCK ME LIKE YOU FUCKED HIM!"  
Yavisk's lip was swollen where he'd caught one of Havar's knees, and his hands were red with blood that was neither of their own.  
"No..."  
Yavisk cocked his head.  
"No?" he picked up a pair of binoculars from the ground and swung them across Havar's face. Awni and Havar cried out in unison and the world spun. By the time it slowed to a tilt, Yavisk had Havar's pants halfway off, pushed down to his knees, trapping his ankles, and was unbuckling his own. Awni was curled up in his seat, eyes firmly closed against the scene.  
"You! Don't you fucking close your eyes on him." Awni opened them, his expression laced with terror. "You watch, so you remember, too, what fucking happens when you run away."

John Killian appeared then, a foot from the doorway, and for a second, Awni looked relieved to see him before recognizing the bloodlust insanity in his fiancé's eyes. John's voice was deceptively smooth.  
"Come here, Awni."  
Then Yavisk freed his cock, which was already hard and leaking, and slammed himself, one thrust, into Havar. Yavisk groaned luxuriously. Havar didn't bother trying not to cry out. It hurt, worse than the first time, because this time, Yavisk meant to hurt, wanted to savor Havar's pain.  
"Aw-ni-ra. Come over here." Killian's voice was singsong. Awni, trembling, looked quietly one more time at Havar and Yavisk, now bonded together as one heaving, groaning mass, then got out of the car. A crowd was gathering outside, a few looking in to the car where Yavisk and Havar were, a few others laughing to the side. Killian pulled Awni into his arms, running his hands over the slim shoulders, skimming down to the hips hidden under his natori.  
"Oh, you're beautiful, baby."  
Awni didn't respond.  
"Why don't we show them what you can do? All these men, so jealous of me?"  
Awni shook his head furiously.  
"Aw, why not, baby? Come on. It'll be fun."

 

Yavisk pounded him hard and fast, swearing at him and cursing his name in English and Spanish and broken Russian. Wedged sideways on the seat, Havar's head hit the window on every thrust. Outside, he could see some of the men beginning to gather, staring in through the open doorway, rubbing their hard cocks. He tried to wriggle down, to hide his face behind Yavisk. The action succeeded only in encouraging him to thrust harder, and Havar felt his eyes water as his head hit the window harder. Knowing better than to shut his eyes, he instead focused on the open neck of Yavisk's uniform, listened to the laughter and sounds of movement outside, and prayed for it all to be done. Yavisk jerked and spurted inside of him, then pulled off immediately and, sitting back in the seat, exhaled and laughed, patting Havar's exposed thigh gently.  
"I am glad to have you back, Havar."

Havar shook his head, tried to shy backwards. Yavisk pulled him up, punched him in the kidney, and threw him forward onto the floor of the car.  
"Get between my knees."  
Havar paused, confused, and Yavisk yanked him into place such that he was kneeling on the floor between Yavisk's legs.  
"Sit."

Yavisk pushed him backwards; with his hands cuffed, he couldn't catch himself, and he stumbled and landed on his ass. The quick movement made him realize that his thighs felt sticky with Yavisk's cum, and he hurt very badly.  
"This is your place now, when we ride in the car."  
Havar stared up at him, disbelief mixing with hatred in his eyes.  
"Don't look at me like that, Havar. I give you only the punishment which you demand."

 

John Killian rode in the car with them on the way back, and after taking interest at Havar's position, he forced Awni onto his knees to suck his cock as they rode.  
Havar didn't look, tried to turn away, but Yavisk grabbed his chin and forced him to look.  
"Watch how he does it. You'll be learning his skill soon."  
Havar shook his head, tried to look away. John Killian reached down and slapped him.  
"Obey your husband."

Awni didn't even look up, just kept sucking John's dick undisturbed as if nothing had ever happened, and Havar was treated to a front-row view of John pulling out to orgasm, cumming halfway in Awni's mouth, but mostly over his face. Awni didn't flinch, accepted it stoically, and didn't even resist when John laughed and turned him around to show it off before picking him up from the floor and handing him a hankerchief. Awni was silent for the rest of the ride back to Anton Yavisk's winter home. Havar rested his cheek against Anton Yavisk's thigh and tried not to think about Brian.

Before dawn, they hung his body up in the main courtyard of the base with a handpainted sign saying We Caught the Traitor.


	32. November 19

**Saturday**

Across the nation, people were celebrating the return of Havar, the kidnapped carrier, and although internally, there would be questions to answer about why Yavisk had gone against Union orders and Cubrovic had helped him, for now, the men involved were treated as heroes. Yavisk, in particular, was up for a medal and a commendation.

~:~

Miljan's jeep had been the first group to leave the field. Disinclined to spend the wee hours of the morning watching Anton play with his toy, he packed his jeep and took seven men with him to drop back at base. The jeep carrying Inderson's body followed close behind them, and after a few brief, informative meetings, a shower and change, Miljan was released and given a week off for his hard work.

He opted to spend the weekend at Anton's home in the mountains, where his friend would no doubt be busy for the next few days sating himself inside his returned mate, and Miljan could get some work done in the library, in quiet. He called his two cousins, one on base, and one just coming in from field work, to see if they wanted to go. They agreed, and Miljan worked in a short nap before they left, a little after the body had been hung up at dawn.

~:~

On the way up, they spotted a trading post/corner store that none of them remembered being there before. Miljan pulled the jeep off, parked it in front, and they went in to check it out. There was nothing of particular interest there; the owner, an elderly man with a mountain accent, told them he'd only opened a week ago, and had very few customers as yet; mostly just officers who lived nearby and a few passing travelers. A kid who looked about 16 was just receiving change as they entered, and upon seeing them, he quickly got his things and toddled away from the counter. The cousins chatted with the store owner for a while, answering questions and amusing themselves with various things for sale, while Miljan begged off and went to find a bathroom.

There was a basic-plumbing shack, little more than a glorified outhouse, that served the purpose. It was situated to the left of the shop's main building, and the heavy wooden door creaked as Miljan entered. The smell assaulted his senses, but of more interest to him was the kid who stood at one of the urinals. Hearing the door, he glanced over his shoulder anxiously. Miljan entered, took up a spot a few places down, and watched the kid from the corner of his eye as he urinated. The kid was clearly having trouble, and Miljan figured that his presence was only making him more nervous. Something seemed odd about his behavior, off just a little bit. Miljan took his time, assessing the kid as he finished up.

He was average height, about half a foot shorter than Miljan, a healthy build for his age, and was in possession of well-cared for light brown skin, and curly black hair that looked a little too long for Academy. That was odd. Academy was strict, usually, about that sort of thing, and attendance to Academy was compulsory for children. He glanced over his clothes. Nice, but not too nice; his father was probably an officer. The kid had obviously been raised well. The store owner had mentioned locals who came here, and he knew some officers had homes not far from the road. His eyes drifted down to check the kid's shoes, and when he looked back up, the kid was staring at him fearfully. There were two lines of dark brown freckles crossing his nose. Miljan shook himself and zipped up, then walked calmly past the kid.

Tiger breathed a sigh of immense relief. That guy had made him nervous from the minute he'd seen him in the store, and now it was clear why. Fucking perverts. He tried to pee again, but the nervousness had made his balls hurt even more. He touched them gently with one finger, and pain jumped through his abdomen. Yup, still hurt. His father had told him they were retracting, and would continue to until they were gone. Tiger wondered over that word: retracting. He wondered what he would look like when it was all done. His dad had told him not to tell anybody, but he was sure someone would notice, sure it would, at some point, become obvious. He waited to see if peeing would get better, but it didn't seem to be, and he needed to get back home before his father realized he was gone. He zipped himself up, shifted the bag of candy in his hand, and headed out the door.

Three men, the pervert among them, were standing outside, waiting for him.

Tiger tried to bolt instinctively, although he knew he was surrounded, and he almost made it past the first guy, who seemed to have honestly not been expecting it. They caught him around his waist, and he started screaming immediately. One clamped a hand over his mouth. He bit him, hit another with his elbow, and felt like he was really gaining on all of them when a balled up piece of cloth went in his mouth and a sack went over his head.

The store owner came out bearing his shotgun, just in time to see the last of Miljan's group piling into the jeep.  
"Everything OK?" his cousin asked from the driver's seat.  
The old man looked puzzled.  
"Thought I heard some shouting out here."  
In the back of the jeep, Tiger was screaming through his gag.  
The cousin shrugged.  
"I didn't hear anything. Maybe somebody's off in the woods or something."  
The old man looked at him for a long, examining moment, then nodded.  
"Suppose it may have been."  
"Well, we'd better be on our way. Thanks for your hospitality, sir."  
In the backseat, Tiger sobbed.

They let him up when they got some distance down the road, and he coughed and heaved for a minute, then promptly opened the nearest door of the jeep and tried to throw himself out. Miljan swore, glared at his cousin, pulled the kid back, and used a pile of rope from the back to restrain him. Tiger's face was wet with tears, but he was obviously trying to pull it together.

"What do you want with me??"  
"Are you a carrier?" Miljan demanded.  
"What?"  
"Tell me, now, and don't lie to me, because I'll check."  
Tiger looked terrified.  
"I'm not a carrier! I'm not! You've got the wrong guy! Let me go!"  
He promptly began wriggling to try to get away from where Miljan's cousin was holding him. Miljan rolled his eyes.  
"What is your name?" the kid was too preoccupied with panicking to answer. Miljan slapped him. "What can we call you, kid?"  
The boy stopped struggling, looked with wonder and concern at Miljan.  
"Tiger. My name is Tiger."  
Miljan inclined his head.  
"Well, Tiger, my name is Miljan. And I'm afraid that bit about you not being a carrier just ring true to me. We're going to have to check."

Tiger began fighting again immediately, but Miljan just unbuttoned and unzipped him, took a quick glance down, and let him go, looking perturbed. He muttered something to his cousin in their tongue and let the band of the kid's boxers go. Tiger groaned when the fabric struck his sensitive parts and Miljan snapped his gaze back up to him, saying something else that Tiger couldn't understand. Miljan focused his attention on him again, only this time his hands were moving across Tiger's skin.

"Are you a carrier? I don't want to ask you again."  
Tiger shivered in fear.  
"I'm not."  
Miljan squeezed his balls lightly and Tiger squealed in agony. Miljan's cousin laughed.  
"They haven't dropped yet, then?"

Tiger flushed. He wondered how long it would take for his dad to be able to find him. How long would it be before he even realized he was gone? He'd gone to run errands all morning, wouldn't be back until afternoon. Tiger felt a powerful regret as he imagined his father coming home, calling out his name as he always did, only this time there was no one to answer...

"Please let me go. Please. My father is going to lose it if I'm gone, and he's an officer and you don't want that. I won't tell anyone who you are or what I saw, I swear I won't."  
Miljan smiled indulgently.  
"Are you a carrier, dear one?" One hand tightened around Tiger's crotch, just a little. Even a feather touch was painful for a carrier in the middle of a change, though, and the kid yelped and tried to move away. Miljan's hand got tighter. "Just answer the question." the strain was showing in Tiger's face. "Answer me and all this can stop. We can take you home, call your father and let him know that you're OK, talk about what's going on." Tiger looked helplessly up at Miljan. "Or you can make me rip these off. It's your choice, Tiger."

Tiger swallowed.  
"I'll talk. I'll talk! I'll talk."  
His dad was going to be pissed, he just knew it. But what else could he do, if they knew anyway; how did they know? He told his dad it would start to show.  
"My - I'm just retracting, that's all, it doesn't mean I'm a carrier, I just have some problems, but my dad and I haven't been to a doctor yet so we don't know anything for sure."  
Miljan released him.

"Very good. I applaud your honesty." The large man leaned back in his seat. "You are your father's only son?" Tiger nodded, unsure why this was relevant. "Then I understand his desire to protect you. Is this why you haven't been to school in some time?"  
Tiger's eyes got wide.  
"Have you been watching me?!"  
Miljan laughed.  
"Only for about fifteen minutes now. Has your father been telling your school that you are sick?"  
Tiger nodded.  
"There was a virus going around. How did you know I missed school?"  
Miljan reached out to rub one of the curls developing around Tiger's ear. Tiger inhaled sharply when his hand approached.  
"Your hair has not been cut."

Tiger digested this, looking uneasily at the man across from him.  
"How did you know that I was...weird?"  
Miljan blinked for a moment.  
"You limped when you walked. This was my first clue. Did you walk all the way to the store?"  
Tiger shrugged.  
"And it was difficult, wasn't it?"  
he shrugged again.  
"You took something for it this morning. The painkillers were wearing off. How far is home from the store?"  
Tiger glanced to the side.  
"Twenty minutes or so."  
Miljan made a motion of dismissal with his hand.  
"You wouldn't have made it. Did your father tell you not to leave the house?"  
Tiger flushed.  
"Yes."  
"And you disobeyed him."  
The flush deepened.  
"I was only going to the store."  
Miljan fixed him with a severe, but amused gaze.  
"And was your father right, Tiger?"

Tiger frowned, beginning to wonder if this was all some elaborate trick on the part of his dad to keep him in line. He discarded the idea immediately; his father would never put him in harm's way, even for a moment.

"Disobedience is a very trying trait in a carrier." Miljan stated simply, giving Tiger an affixing look that made him feel embarrassed all over again.  
"'m not a carrier." Miljan raised one eyebrow. His cousin said something to him and he laughed.  
"What language is that?"  
"Serbian. You'll learn it over time."

Tiger wondered why the hell he would need to learn Serbian when the awful truth suddenly came over him and he began fighting all over again.

"Let me go! Let me go! I'm not a carrier! Let me go!"  
"Tiger. Tiger. Tiger!" Miljan struck him again, harder this time. He didn't care; he kept wriggling and kicking, working his way towards the window; if he could just get it open and get one good shout out... Miljan hit him again, with meaning, in the back of his head. He saw little dancing stars. Miljan laid his full weight across him, snarling.

"You stop when I tell you to stop. You'll only exhaust yourself, or get hurt. Now calm down. Nobody's going to hurt you. Just relax, and we can all get through this."  
Tiger looked in his eyes for a moment, then spent another few minutes wrestling with Miljan's cousin on the floor of the car and Miljan rolled his eyes, locked the doors, and let them wear themselves out. Eventually, Tiger lay defeated across the ground, his chest heaving.

"Where are you taking me?"  
"How old are you?"  
Tiger shook his head.  
"I asked first."  
Miljan laughed.  
"To my brother's home, in the mountains."  
"Who's your brother?"  
"Tut tut. My turn. How old are you?"  
"Seventeen."  
"Seventeen and what?"  
"Seventeen and fuck you."

Miljan quietly took a drink from his flask, then hit Tiger across the face with it and returned it to his pocket.  
"I bet you're getting tired of getting beat up."  
Tiger set his jaw.  
"I'm fine."  
Miljan nodded.  
"I'm sure you are. But it's a pity to harm that pretty face. Seventeen and what?"  
"Seventeen and five months."  
Miljan nodded.  
"Old enough, then."  
Tiger felt fear knot in his stomach.  
"I meant fifteen."  
"Fifteen is still legal, you know."  
"Twelve."  
Miljan laughed.  
"Oh, Tiger. Just relax. Soon, we will be at Anton's home, and then we will call your father and let him know that you are fine. Everything will be OK, you'll see. Just relax."

~:~

In the afternoon, they stopped to find a public phone so that Miljan could make his call.  
"Tiger?!"  
Through the phone, his father sounded panicked. Tiger, in tight restraints, was being kept silent by the recently-broken-nosed Bos, and could not cry out to soothe his father.  
"No, this is not Tiger, although he is here with us."  
The man's voice changed immediately.  
"Who is this?"  
"My name is Miljan Cubrovic, and I am in possession of your carrier son."

Tiger was fighting to get to the phone. On the other end of the line, there was silence as Sergeant Vincent duCourt began to cry. His voice was strong, however, when he answered the statement.

"I don't know what you're talking about."  
Miljan sighed.  
"Sergeant. Tiger's already been examined by my private physician. He is estimated to be about a week and a half along in his development; things are progressing slowly, but that's not uncommon. The physician is here; if you like, I can have Tiger stripped now, and he and I can describe his development to you, so you'll know it's your son."  
"You keep your fucking hands off him, you sick bastard."

Miljan held the phone back from his ear. Tiger, having bitten his way free of Bos' hand, was screaming for his father.  
"Put my son on the phone!"  
Miljan turned away from the phone.  
"Shut him up, please."  
Bos moved one hand around Tiger's throat, choking off the last shout.

"Don't you touch him! Don't you fucking touch him!" duCourt was in a rage.  
"Sergeant duCourt, let's do this civilly. Perhaps, if all goes well, there may even be a gain in it for you...perhaps someone to replace Tiger's pretty mother? No man should live in a house alone."  
duCourt didn't even answer.  
"Please put Tiger on the phone."

Miljan shrugged and handed it over.  
"Dad? I think they know about me."  
"Tiger! Tiger, I'm sorry, son, I'm so sorry. Are you - are you OK? What do you see around you?"  
"I'm fine; there's three men, they speak Serbian, and they took me twenty minutes up the mountain, then we went - " Tiger yelped and went down as Miljan flicked his crotch.  
"Tiger says he's fine and will talk to you soon."  
"I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch!"  
"I also enjoyed speaking with you, Sergeant duCourt. And don't worry - your son is in good hands. He'll see you in a few weeks." Miljan ended cheerfully, hanging up the phone.

He scowled at Tiger, who was still busy cradling himself.  
"Don't do that again. Are you OK?"  
Tiger shook his head. Miljan picked him up carefully and set him down in the jeep.  
"Back to the house, then. You need to get some rest."

~:~

Yavisk spent the morning luxuriously fucking Havar before getting up to answer phone calls and read the mail.  
When Miljan came loudly in with his three cousins, he had just finished making breakfast. Miljan paused as he passed the kitchen, looked at him bemusedly.

"Don't you have a carrier now who can do that?"  
"He's still handcuffed to the bed. Took the loss of his traitor lover hard. What is that?" he indicated the blanket-wrapped bundle in Miljan's arms. His friend laughed, pulled back one edge to reveal a curly head and a damp face. The kid looked miserable.  
"Carrier. Found him down the road, wandering all alone. He's changing though, doesn't feel good. I'm going to put him to bed."  
Anton nodded, turned back to his breakfast.  
"Take him upstairs. Down gets too cold."  
Miljan inclined his head and headed for the steps.


	33. November 20

**Sunday**

Havar woke up to the pain of his shoulders being lowered from the bedpost. The sun was in his face, and cast in silhouette, Yavisk was standing over him, shirtless, his dog tags dangling down into Havar's face. Havar shook his head a little to clear it. The last few days felt like a blur. At the movement, Yavisk turned his attention from unlocking the other handcuff. Cold eyes were on him. Yavisk smiled. Havar sucked in a breath.

"You're awake."  
Havar didn't respond. Like magic, the memories were back and he hated Yavisk all over again.  
"You killed him."

Yavisk's smile vanished. He rolled his eyes and went on releasing the other cuff.  
"Did you really think he was going to survive, Havar? He stole you from me, Havar, took you away. There is not a man alive who would take kindly to a gesture like that."

Havar groaned as his other arm was roughly lowered. Yavisk stood straight up, a black figure against the sunlight.  
"We are done discussing Brian."  
Havar felt an urge to be sick, but swallowed it down and tried to roll over, away from his husband. Yavisk stretched luxuriously, then slapped Havar's flank and sat down on the bed.  
"Get up. Bathe."

Havar thought about arguing, but his body ached, he had to pee, and he felt clammy and sticky from the night before. A bath didn't sound bad. He wanted to be clean.

Yavisk stretched gracefully over the bed, propping himself up on one elbow to watch Havar. Havar blinked slowly, pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed to dangle above the cold wood floor. Everything hurt. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. There was blood on the sheets beneath him when he moved, and he turned his head in disgust. He remembered their fighting, yesterday, all through the day and into the night. He remembered trying to take a blade to Yavisk's throat and having it turned on his own instead. He remembered Yavisk keeping it there, tight against the skin, burning into the first few layers of skin as he pounded into him.

He blinked, and he was back in the room again. Yavisk's room, he assumed. The room was spacious, the dark wood floors scattered with rich-looking tapestry rugs in gold and dark blue and heavy furniture upholstered in the same. The windows were large, and the window frames were painted in gold and blue as well. For such a large and airy house, Havar reflected, it felt quite warm inside.

The bed that he and Yavisk currently shared was smaller than he would have expected, keeping them close together in the largeness of the room. Havar wondered how Yavisk could have ever slept, in such a big house, in such a big room, all alone. He imagined them sharing this big room for the rest of their lives and felt a knot of fear and anguish and unrecognized desire rise up into his throat. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, silently recited one of his father's poems to himself - a lullaby to soothe his nerves.

Yavisk's voice was gentle when it broke the silence.  
"Go clean yourself up, Havar, and we can go down to breakfast."  
Havar half-looked over his shoulder; Yavisk was watching him with a curious expression on his face. He folded and unfolded a little corner of the blanket beneath him.  
"The others are expecting you."

The sickness came in a wave again. Havar imagined them - the others - saw in his head John Killian, and Awni-ra, and all the men who had been there that night. He tried to keep the weakness out of his voice, but it leaked a little anyway.  
"I - I don't want to see anybody else." There was silence for a moment. "Please."

Yavisk reached out to touch him, a bit hesitantly, Havar noticed, and he wondered if his commander felt regret about any of this.  
"It won't be a bad thing, Havar. It will be John Killian, and Awni-ra, and my brothers and one brother's wife."  
Havar felt a weird panic begin in his gut.  
"I don't - I can't - please, Yavisk, I'm not hungry. Please. Don't make me go downstairs, I can't go downstairs, please, Commander, please." he could hear his own voice turning hysterical, but it was early in the morning, and he felt disoriented and he hadn't slept and hadn't eaten and his throat felt parched and Brian was dead.

"Hush, darling." Yavisk was inching closer to him, pulling him closer. "Hush. I won't let any of them touch you."  
Havar half-turned again, looked down at Yavisk's hand on his arm. The stillness of it made him realize he was shaking. He stared at it for a moment. Yavisk moved in closer so that now he was flush against Havar's back.  
"Listen to me, Havar. I am your commander, do you remember that? I will tell you what to do. I will give you a command, and everything will be OK."  
Havar shook his head.  
"Please. Please."  
What was he begging for? Couldn't quite seem to remember. He wanted to go home to his father, taste the inky dust of the desert sands again.  
"Hush, darling. Everything will be OK." Yavisk repeated, more firmly this time. "You will be OK. I don't want to punish you, Havar, but I am your commander, and I will have to, if you continue to disobey me. Do you understand?"  
Havar nodded. A command. A task. A lifeline.  
"Very good, Havar. You're doing very good. Now, it's time for you to get up and bathe, OK? Then we can go downstairs and eat. You're hungry, aren't you?"  
Havar realized he hadn't eaten a real meal in days. His stomach ached. He nodded.  
"Good. Then go, now, through that door, into the bathroom. There is a hot bath waiting for you. I will join you in a moment."  
Yavisk prodded Havar gently, and he got up, wrapping a sheet self-consciously around his waist, and padded numbly across the open room.

Yavisk watched him go, admiring the sway of his hips and the flex and fall of the muscles in his back. After Havar had gone through the door, he leaned his head back and exhaled. He had a lot of work to do.

~:~

It was late afternoon when Miljan opened his eyes. He yawned; his back ached and his neck felt tight. He stretched, popped joints and felt muscles creak back into use. He looked around. Tiger was sitting awake, in the center of the bed, the blankets drawn up around himself and his eyes wide. Miljan made a face, rubbed his eyes, and tried to remember falling asleep in the armchair. The sun was filtering in through the blinds he'd half-closed last night. His boots were gone, laid in a pair next to him. He seemed to be covered in a blanket. He shrugged it off, blinked a few times, and addressed the pretty young thing balancing tightly in the middle of his bed.

"Dobro juto."  
Tiger furrowed his brow.  
"Good morning?"  
Miljan inclined his head.  
"How did you sleep?"  
"Fine."  
"How do you feel?"  
"Bos gave me something for the pain."  
Miljan laughed.  
"I suppose that he forgave you, then."  
Tiger shrugged, looked nervously out at Mil from his blanket sanctuary.

"Did I sleep here?" he asked, stretching.  
Tiger nodded.  
"You said you were going to be guarding me. To keep me from sneaking out. Then you went to sleep. Pretty much right away."  
Miljan yawned and reached upwards, stretching his arms above his head, the blanket wrinkling down from his chest.  
"Well, you're still here. I was successful enough. Was it you who did this?" he asked, nodding towards the blanket in his lap.  
Tiger shrugged, looked away.  
"I got up in the middle of the night. You looked...cold."  
Miljan smiled lasciviously.  
"You could have brought me into bed."  
Tiger shot him a withering glare and Miljan laughed, then got to his feet, tossing the blanket on the edge of the bed.

"Are you hungry? There may be breakfast."  
"It's 1300 hours."  
"Then there may be lunch."  
Tiger shrugged, then nestled back down into his blankets.  
"Can I - can I call my dad today?"  
Miljan stopped in his path, looked back at his ward.  
"You spoke to him yesterday, Tiger."  
Tiger looked horribly sad.  
"But...he's my dad."

Miljan felt a strange sensation in his chest that he supposed was his heart softening. He coughed to clear it and went over to the bed. Tiger scooted away as he sat down. Miljan frowned.  
"Stop that."  
"Too close."

Miljan rolled his eyes, reached for the nearest lump under the blanket, and used it to pull his mate closer.  
"Tiger. Let us come, you talk to me. You understand what's going on, darling, yes?"  
Tiger didn't answer.  
"I don't want to hurt you, Tiger. You are mine. I don't want to give you up, either. Not to your father, or to anyone. I know he loves you, but you are very important to me, and I believe that Sergeant duCourt has not yet come to terms with how the changes you've undergone will be. You are a carrier. You will be taken, and you will be bred, if not by me, then by some other - perhaps barbarian - uniform man. I wish to prevent even the slightest risk of that. You are, in my mind, my wife already, and to myself and my family, this house is your winter home."

Tiger blinked at him for a few minutes, then set his chin down on his drawn-up knees.  
"So you - you think I'm changing, too?"  
Miljan teased a curl near to Tiger's ear.  
"I know you are. And once you are changed completely, we can be fully joined."  
Tiger jerked his eyes up to meet Miljan's penetrating stare, then turned them away again.  
"Fully joined?"  
"I know you understand me, Tiger. You are young, but far from a child. You know what is expected between a man and his wife."  
Tiger swallowed.  
"What if - if I don't want to do that?"

Miljan sighed, rested one arm on either side of the blanket-bundle of Tiger.  
"I was seventeen, too, Tiger, and not so long ago. I remember what I felt, remembered what I did. I remember the thrill of another youth, the heat I felt then to touch skin to skin. You are new to these things, I understand, but they are not things you can prevent by staying away from me. The desire will come, and your needs will manifest, whether I am here to help you understand them or not."

Tiger was blushing furiously by this point, staring at some point on the far wall.  
"Do you touch yourself, Tiger?"  
Tiger yelped his surprise and got up immediately to leave the bed. Miljan caught him, held him back.  
"Answer your husband. Do you touch yourself, Tiger? You do, don't you? Your father works long hours. There's no one in the house to bother you and nothing much to do. So easy, such a little relief in a long, dull day. Of course you touch yourself. Who do you imagine, Tiger? Your first love? One of the handsomer boys at school? Or maybe something more - a man, more grown than you are now. Perhaps you imagine myself?" Miljan let that hang there for a minute, his breath close on Tiger's neck. "Or perhaps you imagine Bos."

At the glare of disgust that flickered across Tiger's face, Miljan laughed outright. Tiger took the opportunity to try to bolt, but he was still caught up in the blankets and Miljan pounced on him like a cat on a moth.  
"Tsk tsk. No running now. We were just getting comfortable."  
Miljan was laying halfway on him, and he moved so that their bodies were aligned, his hips pressed taut against Tiger's ass. Tiger threaded his fingers into the tangled sheets and tried to breathe evenly.

"I know you like me, Tiger, although you may try to fight it. I see you watch me when I move, when I stretch. I see the hesitation, each time, before you push me away. I am no fool, little darling - I know our circumstances are less than ideal, but oh, Tiger, how I want you. How I've wanted you since I knew. Since I saw you, even - I'll admit to that. I hoped you were a carrier the first time I caught a glimpse of your face."  
Tiger heaved in a breath.  
"Don't fight me, please, little one. I can make things beautiful for you. Do you understand how very desirous you are to me?" Miljan nipped gently at one of Tiger's ears. "You make fire in me. Do you understand that? Can you feel that, Tiger?" Miljan shifted a little so that his stiff cock rubbed against the blankets between them, bumping against Tiger's thighs and legs. He thrust viciously, suddenly. "Do you feel how much I want you?"  
Tiger nodded frantically.  
"Can you - can you let me up?"

Miljan complied with a sigh, rolling over to release his quarry. Tiger scuttled out of his grasp, freeing himself from the blankets in a flurry of cotton and flailing. He resettled again on the opposite side of the bed, mostly wrapped again in the blankets, his legs dangling over the edge.  
Just then, a knock sounded at the door.

"Da."  
the door cracked open just enough to reveal Anton Yavisk standing there, an uneasy Havar beside him.  
"Dorucak, prijatelj."

Havar seemed disoriented, his eyes somewhat scattered. Tiger moved to get a better look, rustling the covers. Havar glanced up at him, then snapped his eyes back. He looked nervously between Tiger and Miljan and then back up at Anton.  
Yavisk furrowed his brow.  
"Cubrovic. Introduce yourselves."  
Miljan smiled.  
"Havar. I am Miljan Cubrovic." he nodded his head politely; before he could go on, a small voice came from the blankets.  
"And I am Tiger."

Miljan looked in surprise at Tiger, who was looking, with much interest and a bit of a smile, at the obviously-worn out, barely awake Havar. "I'm a carrier, too."


	34. November 21

**Monday**

"No." Michael answered succinctly, before sawing off a piece of steak and taking a bite. Jesse stared at him in disbelief.  
"What?"  
Michael looked up, blinked as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and repeated himself.  
"I said no."  
Jesse laughed a little.  
"Michael, I said I want to cut my hair, not join the war effort. It's really not a big deal."  
Michael shrugged.  
"It is to me. No."  
Jesse furrowed his brow.  
"Mike, it's just hair. It'll grow back. And it's _annoying_ me."  
Michael reached across the table to finger the ends of Jesse's hair.  
"It's a little long, but there's nothing wrong with it. No." Jesse was a bit taken aback at Michael's immobility on this point.  
"Michael..."  
Michael shook his head to interrupt his fiancée.  
"Jesse, no. There's nothing wrong with your hair. It's fetching and it's carrier-esque. I like it the way it is."  


Jesse felt a weird mix of anger and hurt that had him simultaneously biting back fighting words and tears.  
"But _I_ don't like it this way." Michael sighed and rubbed his thumb across Jesse's cheek, then turned his attention back to his steak.  
"OK. Well, let's table the discussion for now, and maybe we can talk about it again after I get home tonight."  
Incensed, Jesse shoved his lunch plate away. His fork clattered to the floor. Michael paused mid-bite and looked up at him.  
"I want to talk about it **now**."  
Michael tilted his head a little.  
"Jesse, let's talk tonight. I don't want you to feel forced to do something you don't like, but I also want you to respect my authority, and to learn to appeal decisions in a constructive way. So I'll say it again: I think that for right now, your hair would be best left as it is."

Jesse crossed his arms over his chest. His stomach hurt. Why was Michael behaving like this? Was it because Kosin had finally given him control? Was that what this whole thing had been - a ruse, a ploy to get Jesse to trust him? So now that he felt more secure in his power, he was willing to drop the act? Just the thought of Michael betraying him made his heart ache. His hair tickled his neck where loose strands were out of their knot.

"This isn't fair."  
Michael looked worried.  
"Jess, I'm sorry that you feel that way. But let's just discuss it at another time - perhaps when we're not in the middle of a public cafeteria."  
Jesse shook his head, tears threatening more intensely. Michael's staunch refusal was frightening to him. Was this who his lover really was?  
"You're acting just like Kosin."  
Now Michael looked taken aback. He swallowed his bite, blinking quickly.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"You're just like Kosin! And James. And all the rest of them. You only want to control me."  
Michael made a little face.  
"Again, I'm sorry you feel that way. I think comparing me to a complete fucking _psycho_ who tried to have you _put down_ is a bit melodramatic, but I understand that you feel strongly about this." Michael reached across the table to grasp the carrier's hand. "Listen, I want you to be happy. I'm just saying that we should talk about this later."

Jesse shook his head. His heart was pounding. He felt on edge. This needed to happen here, now, or not at all. If they didn't talk about it, then he would know; he would know that Michael had betrayed him. He would rather be dead than consider that possibility.

" _No._ I don't want to talk about it later. I want to talk about it right now! I _hate_ my hair. It makes me _miserable_. And you don't care! You just want it long because you think it's pretty. You think it makes me look sweet, like a pretty, good little carrier. Well, I'm sorry if that's what you want, because that's not who I am!"  
Michael's expression had switched from concerned interest to full-blown worry.  
"Jesse, that's not what's going on here."  
"Then tell me what is! Because you're being unfair."  
Michael glanced around. Some tables were starting to take interest.  
"Jesse, lower your voice."  
"Michael, lower your _fuck you_." 

Michael's eyes widened. He stood up so sharply that Jesse felt a wild moment of panic.  
"You're leaving?"  
Michael shook his head tightly. His expression was angry.  
"No. We're leaving. Get your stuff."  
Jesse got up, began picking up his notebook and pens, his folder and jacket. Michael swept the pills he hadn't taken yet into one hand and offered them to him.  
"I don't need them."  
"Jesse. Take the pills. They're for your health."  
"No. All they do is help you get pregnant and dumb."

Michael closed his eyes for a minute, and Jesse felt a twinge of regret. He really hadn't meant to do this, but it was what was happening now.  
"Jesse, take these pills, and take them now."  
Jesse glanced at Michael's face, then tossed the group of them in his mouth and swallowed.  
"Great. Let's go."

Michael picked up his backpack, took Jesse's elbow in an iron grip, and began push-leading him towards the door. For a moment, another fear seized Jesse. The man pulling him was someone he didn't know. He'd seen Michael impatient before, had seen him annoyed, horny, happy, worried, sad, tired, and troubled, but he'd never really seen him mad. And definitely not when he himself was the cause of it. For all he knew, there was a Jekyll and Hyde situation lurking here, and he'd just released it.

In the hallway, Michael didn't release his grip or ease up even a little bit. He took them down the way to Jesse's room.  
"Is it locked? Where's your key?"  
Jesse unlocked the door and let them in. Michael let the door slam behind him, then used his own key to lock it from the inside. Jesse retreated to the opposite side of his bed.

"Michael, please, I don't want to fight -"  
"Yes, you do. You _must_. You simply _have to_ want to fight , because if you didn't, you wouldn't keep pushing me. I think you want to fight. But Jesse, I'm not the one you're fighting with. I am not the person who is hurting you. There are two enemies you have in the world, and that's people who want to take away your freedom, and yourself."  
Jesse's eyes felt damp.  
"I just want to cut my hair."  
"And I'm asking you not to do that! Do you understand me? Do you understand what I'm saying? I am _asking_ you not to do it! I need this from you. I need you to trust me."

Jesse felt a little disarmed. He'd expected an argument, enraged yelling, a beating, maybe. Not this.  
"I do trust you."  
"Then why do you question everything I say?"  
"I - I don't, I just - "  
"Right. Haven't I tried to help you, Jesse? Haven't I done everything in my power to make your life nice? Haven't I listened to you, respected you, explained to you every single thing I've done? Haven't I rearranged my schedule, my priorities, and my life for you? Haven't I dedicated immense amounts of time to ensuring that you suffer only the mildest of consequences for insanity you've engaged in on an emotional whim? Haven't I made it clear, in the little time you've known me, that I am a good person and I do not intend to hurt you? But this is how you treat me? This is how you thank me for everything I do for you?"

Michael shook his head.  
"You're acting like a spoiled brat, Jesse. Grow the fuck up."  
With that, he turned on his heel and went to the door.  
"I'll see you in private room four on the base for dinner. Please be dressed. It is your choice whether or not to wear a natori."  
Halfway out the door he paused, turned partially back in.  
"And please, Jesse," he said, seriously, one hand on the knob, "Don't do anything stupid until then."

~:~

Havar woke up at noon with his stomach achingly empty. No one was in the room. The sunlight fell in patterns over the floor. The sheets were clean. Havar got up, stretched, padded barefoot over the cold hardwood floors and the slightly-warmer rugs into the bathroom. There was a packet on the sink, certain things laid out for him: a toothbrush with his name on it, toothpaste, deodorant, a variety of soaps, some fancy-looking shampoo and hair creams, and some bluish lotion. He picked a soap and pulled a towel and washcloth down from the shelves above the toilet.

After he'd bathed and washed his hair, then dressed in the clean clothes which were sitting in piles in the windowseat, he was at a loss. He stood in the middle of the room for some time, both hoping for and dreading Yavisk's return. He kept his ears open for any sounds; any voices or changes in the house which may indicate somebody coming. There were none. He waited a while longer. It felt strange, to stand like this, a soldier at attention with no orders to follow.

After a while, his mind began to stray back to Brian, to the four bodies in the mountains and Awni-ra looking out of the jeep's backseat window and the kick-slap sound of a beating and the field before the train passed and then it all just shut down, went to a blank screen. This, Havar decided, was probably his mind's way of keeping him sane. He looked for something to do, and his eyes fell on the pile of clothes which he supposed Yavisk had brought for him. He recognized some of them as his own. They had cleaned out his room on the base, then. He refolded the ones that had fallen out when he'd picked something to dress in, then began searching the dressers and armoires for empty drawers.

Yavisk had, in fact, left a few, and Havar quietly organized the clothing into piles - first old and new, but then he resorted them into pants, shirts, undershirts and briefs (new; he wore boxers), natoris (also new) and sweaters (new, and much nicer than his old ones) - and filled the drawers which would be his own. Afterwards, he returned to the center of the room, standing on the blue rug with one foot on top of the other for warmth, waiting for further command. None came. He went over to the bed, made it up with military precision. He picked up Yavisk's clothes where they'd been abandoned on the floor, laid them on a nearby chair. The door cracked open and he jerked his head up.

"Hello."  
Havar looked his visitor cautiously over.  
"Hi."  
"I'm Tiger."  
Havar finished picking up the clothes and turned to face him fully.  
"I know. We've met."  
Tiger was standing nervously in the doorway.  
"Can I come in?"

Havar shrugged, then looked around for a window he could open. It felt stuffy in the room. Tiger let himself in and went over to lean onto the bedframe, wringing his hands back and forth around the post as he watched Havar move.  
"Miljan says you're a carrier, too."  
Havar looked sharply up at Tiger.  
"Miljan?"  
"Um, Cubri - Cubruv - Cibrov -"  
"Cubrovic." Havar corrected, more sharply than he meant to. He remembered the man. He'd been there that night.  
"He's Anton's brother."  
Havar gave a slight nod as he wandered around the room, checking the windowsills to see which of them opened.  
"He is your companion."  
Tiger cracked a grin.  
"Delicately put."

Havar shrugged. Tiger leaned forward a little, focused his attention on the carpet.  
"So are you?"  
"Am I what?"  
"A carrier?"  
Havar stood up, faced him off evenly.  
"Are you?"  
Tiger's expression was inscrutable. Havar glanced Tiger over. The boy looked young, just a kid. He seemed nervous; he was biting his nails and watching the floor. Suddenly, Tiger looked up at his face so that his dark eyes met Havar's.  
"I think I am...and I'm very scared to be here."

Havar felt a wave of pity and a weird urge to look after the kid rise up in the back of his mind. He blinked at him for a minute.  
"It's a scary place to be."  
Tiger sat down on the bed, his eyes on his lap, then the carpet, then back up to Havar's face.  
"Aren't you worried about what's going to happen to us here?"  
A flashback threatened. Havar shook his head hard to make it go away.  
"I already know what's going to happen to us here. Don't you?" Havar tilted his head; Tiger shook his. "They didn't teach you in Academy how the Union treats its carriers?"

Havar's voice was a little bit mocking, but Tiger ignored it and shook his head again. Havar looked him over, then moved on to another part of the room.  
"You're young. How old are you?"  
"Seventeen."

Havar had to take a minute to try very hard not to imagine what it must be like to be seventeen and kidnapped, held in bondage, beaten and probably raped. To be seventeen and already tied up, a slave to some man's will and bed. At seventeen, he'd never even seen the ocean. What an age for a child to have to suffer. At seventeen, he remembered, he had still sometimes wanted to cry for his mother.

"How old are you?"  
Havar searched the wall full of shelves, found a small window which would crack and used all his strength to open it.  
"26." As he spoke, his stomach rumbled. Tiger looked at him.  
"Are you hungry? Miljan says I should learn to prepare food, but he doesn't know I already know how to cook. It's just my dad and me at home, after all, and most days he works really late. He's probably working late today. When he comes home, the house will be dark. He hates that. I think he's a little bit scared of the dark, so when I'm home, I always leave a light on for him, even if I go to bed. It makes him feel better. And then when he comes in, I get up to go see him, and he says 'Tiger, ah. The day I had.' and then we talk. I learned how to cook so I could make dinner for him, because when he's cooking he won't talk. And even though I almost never got to see him, it was OK, as long as we had time to talk. I want - "

Tiger bit off the last bit, swallowed a couple of times and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his fist. Havar wasn't sure how to handle this; he watched, cautiously, from across the room. Tiger took several deep breaths to calm himself, closing his eyes and then reopening them.  
"I'm OK. I'm OK. Honestly," Tiger said, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of his natori with thin-boned, trembling hands, "I'm fine."

~:~

"Cut it."  
Ortega looked worried, the scissors in one hand and Torréon balanced under his arm in the other.  
"Are you sure? How much, Jesse?"  
"Halve it. I want it gone. Get it to my ears, or above."  
Ortega eyed the scissors with some trepidation.  
"And you're sure Michael won't be mad about this? I really don't want to get you in trouble."  
Jesse set his jaw.  
"Don't worry; I'm sure he'll love it."

~:~

Sloane's stomach felt queasy. He picked at his meal.  
"You're not hungry?"  
his eyes jumped up to Clint, who was chewing and watching him carefully. Sloane felt scrutinized. He tried to pick some part that was appealing to him. Nothing did it, and panic was making the nausea worse.  
"No, I am, I just - "  
"It's OK." Clint interrupted, "If you're not, I mean. You can eat something later, if you don't feel fine."  
Sloane stared at him. Clint looked awkwardly away.  
"OK." he pushed the plate away tentatively, half expecting Clint to change his mind and suddenly be mad.

"You look pretty."  
Sloane, usually at least passable at hiding his reactions, couldn't control the confusion which crossed his face. Then understanding dawned. He lowered his voice.  
"I don't - I don't think the kids are in my hall, if that's where you want to go. Tega and Jess went to the craft room, and Sai is sleeping in the library. I don't know where Sul is, though."  
Clint shook his head.  
"No, I don't - fuck, can I compliment you without you thinking it's all just so I can get a fuck? Sometimes I just want to say something nice to my goddamned girlfriend. Shit."

Clint threw his fork down. Sloane put his hands in his lap.  
"I hate that word."  
"Sorry. I forgot. Boyfriend. Carrier fucking boyfriend."  
Sloane was getting a little red.  
"OK, what's this all about?"  
Clint frowned.  
"What?"  
Sloane shook his head. His voice was almost a whisper.  
"The act. The fucking act, Clint. Why this front like you're suddenly Mr. Romeo? There's nobody here but me. Who are you impressing? What are you doing this all for?"  
Clint shook his head.  
"Maybe I just want to do something nice for a change. Maybe I don't want to fight."

Sloane scoffed, sat back in his seat.  
"You mean to tell me you're different now."  
Clint sighed.  
"I mean to tell you I don't want to fight."  
"You're a goddamn liar, Clint."  
Clint backhanded him, hard.  
Sloane checked his teeth with his tongue.  
"OK, I'm sorry. I guess you proved me wrong."  
Clint frowned, took two deep breaths.  
"That was - I'm sorry. But listen. I am...different now. I am. I'm a new man." Sloane looked at him skeptically. Clint exhaled in frustration. "Look at it this way: the Old Clint would have hit you twice."

~:~

"Oh. Tiger. You are here. Miljan has been looking for you; he's worried you escaped."  
Tiger shrugged.  
"Escaped? Where to?"

Yavisk balanced the covered tray he'd been carrying in one hand, jutting it against his hip, and used the other to dial the intercom to downstairs.

"Tiger is here, Miljan."  
Tiger heard a tirade of words in Serb. On their end, Anton laughed.  
"OK, I'll give him the message."  
Yavisk set the tray down on the bed next to Tiger.  
"Miljan would like to see you in the study on the first floor."  
Tiger looked confused.  
"You know how to get there? Go down the stairs, turn left and go down the hall. It is the door at the end."  
Tiger nodded and got up to go, but stood where he was instead, fingering the hem of his shirt.  
"Is he - is he mad?"  
Anton chuckled.  
"No. He was just worried. You'd better go down there quickly, before his mood changes."  
Tiger hastened to the door and out; they heard him going swiftly down the stairs.

"Now, for you - "  
Havar hadn't moved from the place he stood, across the room.  
"Come here."

He wanted to - he really did. He tried to make his feet move. They wouldn't. Yavisk looked up at him, lifted one hand and uncovered his tray. It was arrayed with bread, fruit, stacks of meat and some kind of creams. There were glasses of water and what was most likely orange juice.

"Are you hungry?" the food looked so seductive. "Then come eat something, Havar."  
he felt his feet begin to move.  
"That's it. Good. Come closer." Yavisk was cooing to him.

Havar took the glass of orange juice first, took long, thirsty swallows from it.  
"Hey. Hey. Not too quickly." Yavisk took the glass back, replaced it with the water one. "Too much sugar for you, all at once. You haven't eaten. That will make you sick. Come here, Havar, and have some bread. It's freshly baked."  
Havar reached for it, but Yavisk moved it from his hand.  
"Kiss your husband first."

Havar's stomach rebelled immediately, and adrenaline rushed his veins. Please not that. He was starving. Yavisk observed him calmly.

"Kiss your husband, Havar, and you'll get something to eat."  
Havar tilted his head, trying desperately to process this new event in his mind. Brian, and the nighttime and the smell of the water in the Cove and the squeal of diesel engines and truck tires. Havar blocked it out. Hungry. But to do what he asked...his heart was pounding. Havar whined, an animal's cry, unable to verbalize the confusion he felt. Yavisk lifted a piece of the loaf to his own mouth.

"Do you smell that? It's warm. And delicious. Come for it, Havar, and I will feed you. Kiss your husband, and you can have whatever you want." His voice was even, soothing, hypnotic. Havar moved forward. "Good, Havar, good."  
he stopped, inches from Yavisk's face. Anton met his eyes firmly and unflinchingly.  
"Do what I've asked you, Havar, and you will have everything you could ever want."

Fear and disgust and tremulous desire swirled on his tongue. He kissed him, then immediately began to cry. Yavisk pushed a piece of the bread loaf into his hand and held him, rubbing his back.

"Very good, sweetheart. You've done very well."

~:~

Jesse hadn't realized that human beings could turn that particular mix of red and violently purple, but Michael did it, the minute Jesse walked through the private room door.

The officer stood when the door cracked, and Jesse had a brief moment to think of how handsome Michael really looked in his full and proper uniform before the rage began.  
"What in the hell did you do to your hair?"  
The doorman who had let him in raised an eyebrow, tried to look disinterested, and casually let himself out of the room. Jesse glanced after him. Turncoat. He didn't need him anyway.

"Oh, this? Just a little trim." he patted the ends of his hair, which fell just past the top of his ear. Michael narrowed his eyes.  
"Michael? Is this your carrier?"  
the officer turned into the voice, and Jesse's eyes fell on a man who was either Michael's father or his identical, decades-older twin. Michael half-bowed, his tense posture and angry face clearly revealing his emotions.  
"Yes, dad. This is Jesse Paik."

Michael's father got to his feet - a little unsteadily, Jesse noted, and waved one hand at him. The admiral was a burly man with greyed hair and a bit of a beard forming on his chin and cheeks.

"Nice to meet you, Jesse."  
Jesse waved back.  
"Jesse, this is my father, Admiral Eric O'Connor. And this is my stepmother, Joseph."

The carrier, a well-fed, femme brunette of about 45, with refined features and hair side-combed into a long ponytail, waved casually from behind an upturned wine glass.

"Nice to meet you."  
Joseph nodded.  
"Dad, Joey," Michael said tightly, "It appears Jesse isn't prepared for dinner after all. We'll have to meet again, later."

Eric eyed Jesse's hair suspiciously.  
"Well, we've already ordered the meal, Michael-boy. The fish doesn't take long to cook. If you're going to beat him, perhaps you should do it later."  
Michael rolled his eyes.  
"I'm not going to beat him, dad."  
Eric settled himself back down into his seat.  
"Oh? Well, that's probably the reason he's gone and cut his hair too short without your permission, then. They never listen until you prove to them you're serious."

Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose.  
"Yes, thank you, dad."  
Eric furrowed his brow.  
"What's wrong? What's the problem, Michael?"  
Joseph extended one hand across the table and settled it on Eric's hand.  
"I think you're overstepping again, sweetheart."  
"Am I? I'm just teaching him how to handle a problem, that's all I'm trying to do. He's forever complaining that I don't teach him enough, and here I go trying to help and he gets upset! Well, I don't understand the boy; never have, never will."

Joseph refilled his own wine glass.  
"It's alright, dear. Just let them be."  
"You tell him how to handle the carrier, Joey."  
Joseph rolled his eyes.  
"Beat him, dear."  
"Damn straight."  
Jesse was becoming faintly amused by the exchange. Michael was not. He was crossing the room, his veins bulging. When he reached Jesse, he took his arm in a bruisingly sharp grip. Jesse gritted his teeth and smiled warmly.  
"No dinner?"  
Michael marched him firmly out the door. Jesse waved to the doorman on his way out, but got no response. Defector.

Upstairs, in Michael's room, he first locked them in with his keycard, then marched Jesse over to the bed and sat him down. He ran his hands through his hair.  
"I'm sorry, Jesse. I am so fucking sorry." Jesse's eyes got wide. "But I really am going to have to punish you."

~:~

Anton praised him heavily for the way he'd tidied the room. He got even more praise for putting away his own clothes. Yavisk was so pleased, he even promised Havar he'd have someone make him some baklava; at the word, Havar perked up a little, but just for a moment before he began to wonder how Yavisk knew that little fact about him. His question must have shown on his face.

"When we were collecting your items, I read some portion of your diaries."  
A blow to his stomach couldn't have shocked him more.  
"Why - why would you do that?"

His fingers shook. He'd written a lot of things in there.

Yavisk shrugged.  
"You are my wife. I wanted to know you."  
Havar wanted to scream, to rage against him and swing and punch. He burst into tears instead, and Yavisk, looking more than a little sorry, just gathered him up into his arms and let him cry his heart out.


	35. November 22

**Tuesday**

Michael was standing outside of the general's office, twisting his hands together, waiting for his walk-along. He'd been out there for an hour already this morning, and frankly, was beginning to wonder if he really didn't have better things to do. But the conversation was too important. The opportunity was too important, and he knew his father had worked hard to set this up. He'd have to wait.

Wandering the hall, Michael examined the dark walls around him, looked at the portraits of former leaders of the Department of Human Interests. They stared flatly out at him from behind slabs of thick and heavy glass. The silence was rather relaxing, actually. Gave him time to think. About what?  
About Jesse? No. Too complicated; he didn't have enough privacy for that.  
About work, then. He felt his blood pressure rise just a smidge. Too aggravating.  
About his father, and their conversation that morning. Ah, just time-consuming enough.

~

The Admiral and Joseph had been in residence at base for a little over two days now, and Michael was already a little bit ready for them to leave. His father had pestered him non-stop about what he was going to say on this damn walk-along with the general, and Joseph had been too drunk most of the time during the day to notice the tension or reign the Admiral in.

In his brief periods of sobriety, however, Joe had been ubiquitously almost-helpful, reorganizing 3 out of the 5 drawers in Michael's armoire before losing interest and watching a film instead; washing exactly one load of the many piles of laundry that had built up in his quarters; restocking certain, random things in his bathroom; and folding seven shirts before wandering off to scare up some carrier friends of his for a poker game.

Joey had just about redeemed himself, however, by managing to distract the Admiral on the morning of Michael's walk-along. Joe had a good sense for that; he always managed to swoop in on Michael's most important days and settle the Admiral with some task or another, leaving Michael in peace. Today, he'd tasked the Admiral with arranging a celebratory dinner for the evening, and had insisted that Jesse be invited as well.

"The breed boy's joining us?"  
"Dad, please don't call him that."  
Michael rifled through a pile of clothes for an undershirt.  
"In my day, that was a term of endearment!" the admiral puffed out his chest. "He should take it as a compliment."

Michael tried to envision Jesse doing that. He sniffed a shirt, then pulled it on.  
"Dad, I know you're just being difficult."  
"Are you going to breed him?"  
Michael felt a surge of annoyance.  
"This conversation isn't happening right now."  
"Your old man can do it if you're not up to the task, you know."  
"That's not funny."  
"I like the black-haired ones."  
"Joe!" Michael had tattled remorselessly, and the Admiral had laughed until Joey came in and ushered him away, leaving Michael to enjoy his few blessed minutes alone. Those few, innocent moments had given him just enough time to worry about whether he'd done the right thing with Jesse, worry about whether or not he was beginning to go gray (he was), and then worry about not fucking up his walk-along.

~

Suddenly, the door to the office blew open and Michael snapped to attention just as the general, tailed by three or four important-looking men, came storming out.

"And that's the last damned conversation I want to have about it, Dawson. Make it happen, and make it quick!"  
The shortest of the three men set his jaw, nodded, and scampered off to Michael's left. The general turned to him.  
"At ease. You my walk-along?"  
"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Michael O' - "  
"I know who you are. Let's get this moving."

~:~

Vichy knocked again on the closed door to his room.  
"Come on, Jess, it can't be that bad."  
No answer.  
"Jess, we know you're in there."  
No answer.  
"You're going to get hungry eventually."  
A scoff.  
"Dammit, Jesse, this is my room, too. Let me the hell in."  
The door cracked.  
"Crack even one smile and I swear I'll hit you."  
"Hit me and I'll tell Michael you need new meds."

Vichy shouldered his way into the room, Sai and Ortega closely in tow. They spread out as they passed through the door, but as all three caught sight of what lay before them, they pulled up short.

"Holy - "  
Despite his best efforts, Vichy began to laugh.  
"I hate you all. I really, really do." Jesse poured himself a drink from a small silver flask into a paper cup he held in his right hand.  
"I suppose Michael's making you do this."  
"Of course. Why would I do it if he wasn't?"  
Vichy, wiping his eyes and trying to calm down his giggles, nodded to the flask.  
"And was contraband part of the deal?"  
"I asked him if he could just beat me instead of making me suffer like this. We compromised - I suffer, but I suffer with whiskey." Jesse looked down into the cup. "It was a good choice."

"You don't look bad, you know." Tega prompted, shifting Torréon under his arm.  
Jesse leveled hatred and annoyance equally in his glare.  
"I look like an asshole."  
"Some people like those."  
Vichy began to laughed hysterically all over again.  
"So how long do you have to do this?" Sai asked.  
"I don't know. I expect until my behavior improves."  
Tega cocked an eyebrow.  
"Jesse...what did you do?"  
Jesse pointed, exasperated, to his head.  
"Aw, Jesse, you promised me he wasn't going to care!" the other carrier cried, dismayed.  
"Hey, I didn't know for sure. We gambled; we lost." Jess poured himself another drink. "Anybody want to share?" Everyone shook their heads. Jesse shrugged. "Suit yourselves."

By then, Vichy had himself under control again.  
"So he made you wear a natori."  
"He's making me wear a bunch of natoris."  
"What happened - " Vichy burst into laughter again before controlling it. "What happened to your pants?"  
Jesse sighed, and in a very tight, controlled voice, answered,  
"He took them all away."  
"He took your pants - "  
Vichy almost fell over, collapsing into peals of laughter.  
"It's not funny."  
"Boy, Jesse, I tell you - he's really got your number."  
"What do you mean?"  
"A regular old restriction wasn't going to do it - if he says don't leave your room, you'll do it the second he's gone. If he says be on your best behavior, you'll inevitably get into a fight. But if he says wear a natori, then pride will keep you restricted to sitting alone in your room with your knees together like a prude. Clever man, that one. I like him already."

~:~

Tiger made breakfast in exchange for a phone call to his dad and a long walk alone through the grounds of the winter home. Miljan, Anton, Bos, and the two cousins ate it; Havar was ill and still sleeping, and the other carrier was nowhere to be found. After breakfast, Tiger dumped the dishes in the sink and stomped in to meet Miljan in his study.

"I'm ready to go."  
Miljan took his time looking up from what he was doing.  
"Give me your wrist."  
Tiger stuck it out, and Miljan used it t pull him closer and fit him with a thick, black latex wrist band.  
"Do you know what will happen if you go outside of the gates, Tiger?"  
Tiger shook his head.  
"Well, firstly, I will beat you. But second to that, you will be tracked. That is what this thing on your wrist is for. And you will want to be tracked, Tiger, because outside of our home's gates, you will also get lost. The woods are treacherous and confusion comes swiftly here. Do you understand, mladunče?"  
Tiger nodded. Miljan seized his jaw in one hand.  
"And if you were to escape the forest, little one - "  
"I know, I know. Where would I go? Someone else would find me, a criminal or a drifter, or at best an officer who wouldn't hesitate to turn me in. Nobody else will be as gentle as you. Nobody else will treat me so nice. I know the speech. I'm not stupid, Miljan, and you have me sufficiently frightened, so I'm probably not going to run away. Far. Today."

Miljan smiled.  
"He learns well."  
"I learns well. Let me go."  
Tiger tried to pull his jaw free. Miljan tightened his grip.  
"Say it."  
Tiger blinked at him, his memory failing.  
"Vol - "  
"Volim te."  
Miljan let him go, kissed his cheek.  
"I love you, too, little cub."

~:~

Havar shook his head over the toilet, his knees imprinted from being crouched so long on the cold little white tiles below.  
Not true.  
Not true.  
Couldn't be true.  
Not true.  
Please, not true.  
Please God, please mother, please anyone, please make it not true.  
Not true.  
Not true.  
Another wave of sharp nausea hit him. He retched into the bowl.  
True.

~:~

Michael walked slowly towards his parents' room in the guest suite. His mind was racing with thoughts about Jesse, his family, his life. He pulled out his key card and slid it in the slot. He opened the door. His eyes widened and he turned to look away, but suddenly realized exactly what he was seeing.

"What the **fuck**?!"

Joey was half-turned, sideways on the couch, and Michael's father was pounding into him from behind. At Michael's shout, they broke apart and both leapt backwards, away and behind the sofa.

"Michael!" his father roared, face red. The shouting didn't faze him. He knew what he'd seen.  
"Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit."  
"Now, Michael, this isn't what it looks like."  
"No, no, it definitely is. Holy shit, it definitely is."  
"Mikey, it's not what you think it is! Honest!" Joey piped in.  
Michael shook his head.  
"Oh my god, you're not a carrier. You're not a carrier. Holy shit, you're not a carrier."  
"Michael - "  
"You told me you were barren."  
"I kind of am."  
"But you're just not a carrier."  
"Michael, that's enough now." the Admiral scolded him.

Michael was sitting down now, shaking his head.  
"I can't - what the fuck happ - I mean, I really don't - how the fuck are you not a carrier?!"  
"I am a carrier!" Joseph cried indignantly. "Just not in the traditional sense!"  
"You have your balls!" Michael hissed.  
"Michael, lower your voice right now."  
The Admiral was standing now, his pants up but still unzipped, and a look of stern control on his face.  
"Unless you want to bring this house crumbling down on our heads, you'll shut your mouth now and you'll never talk about what you've seen in this room."  
Michael met his father's stare evenly.  
"If I'm going to shut up, somebody better start talking."

~:~

Sloane bit his lip to keep from crying out, but he couldn't seem to manage it. Clint had sworn he'd never do this, but somehow, right now, it seemed to be happening. Every nerve in his body felt individually focused on what he was feeling. He squeezed the edges of the table, knowing better than to move.

"Please - "  
Clint half-grinned, looked up from between Sloane's parted thighs.  
"Just wait for it, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

He dropped his head back down and dipped the tip of his tongue inside of Sloane, then brought it back up to lick the underside of his cock. The tip of his tongue laved the slit at its tip, and Sloane bucked up, felt the resistance of Clint's hands heavy on his hips, holding him still, and felt himself slip incrementally closer to the edge.

"Please, baby, please, Clint, fuck fuck fuck, yes, Clint, please - "

Clint released his cock from his mouth with a sloppy wet sound and slid his tongue instead from Sloane's perineum, forward to dip back into his cunt. Sloane arched his back and came, hard, a few drops of clear, thin fluid oozing out of his pulsing cock. Sloane collapsed and just lay there for a long, few minutes, riding the afterglow high and feeling the cool air of the art room tickle his skin. Clint sat back, feeling self-satisfied, and wiped his mouth with his hand.

"See?" he said, helping a weak-kneed Sloane to stand and then to pull up his pants, "I can be nice sometimes."

~:~

"Look, do you or do you not have classification as a carrier with the Union government?"  
"I do."  
"Is it real?"  
"Michael!"  
"No, Eric, let him ask what he wants. Yes, it's real."  
"Did my father falsify it for you?"  
"Yes, he did."

Michael blinked. He was taking the whole not-a-carrier thing very much in stride now, doing a lot better than he was when he'd first opened the door.

"Were either of you ever going to tell me or my brothers?"  
Joe glanced up at Eric.  
"We...didn't have any plans to, no, not yet."  
"So you were just going to let me live a lie."  
"It's not your life that's involved here, Michael. It's mine, and it's your stepmother's." the Admiral pointed at him fiercely with his glass of scotch.

Michael shook his head a little to clear it.  
"You could go to prison for this - do you know that?"  
the Admiral scoffed.  
"Not with the sort of things I've witnessed, Michael, I don't think so. Joseph, even if he is discovered, is just a minor indiscretion, and one well disguised. I'm worth much more than that."  
"But he's not a carrier! That sets you up for all kinds of blowback! Don't you understand that?"  
the Admiral took a long swallow from his glass.  
"I do understand that, Michael. And believe me - I've been thorough. I have very definitively covered our tracks. There are records, and testimonies, and classes, and medical exams. Joey's been on hormones for years now, and we've even looked into certain surgeries - just to avoid incidents like this, actually."

Michael wrung his hands.  
"It's just that there's so much that could go wrong, Dad."  
"I know, Michael. I know. But what else was I supposed to do? You do the things you have to do to be with those who you love."

~:~

Ortega had persuaded Jesse to shave his legs through a mixture of gentle coaxing, firm statements, and passive-aggressive jabs at his ego. He'd also convinced him that if he did something a little nicer with his hair, maybe the new cut wouldn't bother Michael so much and he could get his old clothes back. Jesse hesitated, but acquiesced and sat silently on the stool in front of the mirror while Vichy and Sai watched and Ortega slowly combed and pinned his hair into a passably fashionable style. He had to admit, he didn't look half bad. For a spineless defector. He wrapped himself in the navy blue natori with yellow detail that Tega had jealously eyed before handing over.

"You can have it if you want." Jesse told him, in an effort to be generous. Tega rolled his eyes.  
"Michael gave it to you. I'm sure he wants to see you wear it."

In a three-quarters sleeve white, fitted shirt and navy blue natori, his hair actually combed and pinned up and cologne on, Jesse looked perfectly the part of an ideal carrier boyfriend. So much so that even Sloane remarked to him on his way out, and he felt the envious glances of a group of new initiates as he made his way to the door to be picked up.

There was a heated conversation going on inside the private dining room that Jesse could hear through the door, but when he stepped in, the room went silent. Michael stared, transfixed, at him. Jesse crossed his arms over his chest self-consciously.  
"Hey."  
"Hey." Michael's grin broke over his face. "You look amazing."  
Jesse shrugged, shook his head.  
"Let's eat."

All through dinner, Michael fawned over him; grinning, sniffing his hair, and just generally behaving with singleminded devotion. Halfway through the first course, and in the middle of the Admiral's story about his early career, Jesse noticed Michael was sitting closer than he had been. By the time their plates were taken, they were side by side and Michael had one hand resting possessively under Jesse's natori, on his upper thigh. The hand was moving, creeping closer to making something of itself, when the Admiral asked quietly,

"So how did you do on the walk-along, Mikey?"  
Immediately, the hand was gone. Michael took a sip of his water.  
"I've been promised captain."  
The Admiral applauded.  
"Wonderful! Michael! That's my boy!"  
Joey clapped as well.

"Is it the position you wanted?"  
Michael took another swallow of water.  
"That part is...negotiable. I might have to spend a year or more where I am before I can transfer into DHI."  
Jesse raised an eyebrow.  
"You want to transfer to DHI? Why?"  
Michael looked at him, nodded, then looked away.  
"DHI has jurisdiction over matters of carrier management. If I am under them, I might actually be able to make some kind of a difference. You know, do something nice for a change."  
All eyes shifted to Jesse, who, feeling a bit on the spot, picked at his dessert.  
"Oh. And here I didn't even think you cared."  
Michael reached again for his glass of water.  
"I do."  
Across the table, the Admiral was furrowing his brow.  
"Why take the time before, though, Michael? Why the delay?"  
Michael took his time to answer.  
"There are some concerns."  
"About your level of experience? Leave that to me. I'll talk to - "  
"Not about my experience, Dad."  
"Oh. What about, then?"  
There was a pause.  
"About Jesse."

Both of Jesse's eyebrows shot up this time.  
"What? Why me? What do I have to do with anything? How do they know me? How do they know who I am?"  
Michael put one hand over his to calm him.  
"They know you because they know me. You are my carrier, or so they say. You, naturally, would be of interest to them, too."  
"So what are their concerns about me?"  
Michael hesitated again.  
"They're concerned I might encounter a conflict of interest."

Jesse frowned, turned all the way to face Michael.  
"A conflict. Of interest. Because of me."  
Michael felt around for a way to phrase it delicately.  
"They seem to feel that your behavior, your attitude, and your rejection of your role as a carrier would undermine my ability to lead within the DHI team."  
"What!"  
"They think you're a liability."  
Jesse blinked.  
"They told me that unless things improve, which they highly doubt they're going to, I should probably move on to another carrier or explore other options in the pursuit of my career."  
Jesse sat, just a little stunned, for a moment.

"I'm sorry it came out that way, Jess, please. I care about you, I really do. I don't want to give you up. I can't give you up. If I give you up, that's it - the Centre won't take you back. So you're stuck here, I guess, with me now. And I just wanted to make it easier on the both of us. If I can get this position...I mean, I know you hate it when I ask you to do things like wear a natori or not cut your hair, but I just really, really, really, need this to work. If I can make this work, then I can help you and Tega and Sloane and Vichy and Joey and all of them. If I can't, then I'm just another cog in the bulldozing machine. So please, Jesse, understand. I want to make this work. I want to make us work. I have to make us work, because if I don't, I'm going to drown trying to keep us both afloat. Don't you understand that?"

Jesse sat quietly for another moment, then picked up his napkin from his lap and dropped it in the middle of Michael's plate.  
"Maybe you should get yourself another carrier wife, then, Michael, because this liability certainly didn't mean to drag you down."


	36. November 23

**Wednesday**

"Well, it's not a sign of pregnancy, and that's damn lucky, if you ask me."  
Anton Yavisk's personal physician straightened up from where he'd been bent over, examining Havar. He plucked the gloves off of his hands and dropped them into a plastic bag to be disinfected. Yavisk exchanged glances with Miljan, who had brought Tiger along for a check-up as well.  
"What is it, then?"

The Doctor was busy navigating a straw into a full glass of lukewarm water, which he then handed to Havar, his expression the same gentle one that he used with children and new carriers.

"Well, he's severely dehydrated, for one, Anton. You don't know to give him water?" the Doctor cast a dark look over his shoulder, then turned back to Havar, his face calm again. "Can you drink this for me, Havar?"  
Havar nodded and took the glass gratefully with shaking hands.  
"Slowly, now."  
Havar nodded around the straw.  
Good."

The doctor spun around on his stool to reach into his medical bag. He retrieved two glass bottles of pills and several syringes. Havar's eyes flicked to the needles, then up to Anton, then back to the doctor. He pushed the now-empty glass of water away from him.  
"I'm done. What are the needles for?"  
the Doctor refilled the glass and handed it back.  
"Slowly." he cautioned, then began to load up two of the syringes.  
"These are just vaccines. Let me see your arm."  
Havar hesitated, both hands clenching tightly on the glass.  
"Havar." Anton's voice was calm, but warning. Havar flicked his eyes to him, then to the syringes. He held out one arm.  
"It's ok. You'll only feel these for a second. Little pinch and then it's done. Keep drinking that water."  
Havar nodded.

Beside Miljan, Tiger was flinching already. The Doc was right, though - they were quick and before Havar could even complain, all three empties were put away.  
"Well, Doctor? What's the diagnosis?"  
the Doctor glanced almost resentfully at Anton for a second, then turned to the file, balanced on his knees, which he'd been making notes in.  
"I'm putting him on vitamins and iron pills, prescribing a diet of therapeutic foods, and asking you to monitor his blood sugar for two weeks. I'm also going to give him an inhaler and some nutrient packets to put in his water. He needs to see a psychologist, he needs regular medical attention, and most of all, he needs to be left alone, sexually, until he's at least partially recovered from...everything. He's fatigued, achy, and running a slight fever. He seems to be bruised in a colorful variety of places. He has numerous tears to his perineum, and although all the active ones seem sufficiently minor, I see what look like some oddly healed ones indicating repeated abuse. In heaping addition to that, he's severely dehydrated, potentially hypoglycemic, suffering from headaches, moderate-to-severe depression, spells of dizziness and memory blackouts; he seems to be mildly asthmatic, so stop smoking your cigars around him, and his blood pressure is surprisingly high. All in all, Anton, I'd say I'm pretty astounded that you thought you could - or should - get him pregnant at all."

Yavisk narrowed his eyes and muttered something in Serbian. Miljan and the Doctor both made identical expressions of surprise. Havar put down his glass again and edged it towards the Doc. Yavisk stepped forward to refill it, and Havar leaned away from his sudden approach. The reaction wasn't lost on the Doctor; he cocked his head, closed the folder, and got to his feet, brushing off his lab coat. Then he looked squarely at Anton.  
"Could I see you in the other room for a minute, brother?"

~:~

Eric O'Connor rolled off of his mate, his chest heaving.  
"Oh, Joey. Baby." he kissed Joseph's temple, where sweat had plastered strands of brown hair to his skin. "Joey, you are perfect."  
Laid out on his stomach, eyes closed, Joey smiled. Eric propped up on one elbow to look at him.  
"I think you may make an old man young again, sweetheart."  
Joe laughed and turned his head towards at Eric.  
"Not old." he mumbled into the covers.  
Eric laughed and petted his hair with one hand.  
"What did I do to deserve you? You perfect little thing."  
Joe smiled wanly and shook his head.  
"Not perfect." he mumbled, then shifted slightly, turned to face away from Eric.

Eric paused in his petting, wondering which kind of melancholy this was - the long lived kind, which would come over Joseph and be with him for days, or the short-lived kind, which came only for a minute, sometimes an hour.

"What's wrong, Joe?"  
Joseph curled up on one side.  
"Nothing. I'm fine."  
Eric nuzzled the back of his neck, inhaled his husband's scent.  
"I'm not an idiot. What's on your mind?"  
Joseph didn't respond.  
"Is it about Michael?"  
"Do you think he'll tell?"  
Eric frowned and took Joseph's chin to turn his head.  
"Joey. Michael loves you. Why would he do anything to endanger either of us? And besides, I told you - I've prepared for that eventuality."

Joseph nodded and pulled his head away.  
"I know. I know. I just thought about it, that's all."  
Eric sighed and rested his forehead on his mate's shoulder.  
"Please, please, don't even think about it. Everything is going to be OK."  
"He's mad."  
Eric shook his head.  
"He doesn't like feeling left out. He's been that way since he was a child. But he's in the mix now, I expect he'll be feeling self-validated enough to keep it to himself."

Joe shrugged and held up the end of his ponytail to his face for a slow inspection. The silence stretched out between them.  
"I used to be a pilot."

Pain and regret and empathetic sorrow and an ugly emotion that felt distinctly like morbid glee struck Eric squarely in the center of his chest.

"I'm sorry, Joey."  
Joe shook his head, but his voice was teary.  
"It's OK. I'm not. I just - " he flipped over onto his back to look at Eric. "It's OK. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just - fuck, it's just the goddamn hormones." he wiped his eyes. "I'm OK."  
Eric frowned and kissed his cheek.  
"Your face begs to differ."

Joe looked around, his eyes lowered.  
"I just - it feels weird, you know. Weird. Like I don't belong anywhere, Eric. It's been five years now."  
Eric nodded.  
"I know."  
"I'm not him anymore - I'm not Joseph."  
Eric didn't answer.  
"I'm Joey. Whoever that is."  
Joe stared up at the ceiling.  
"I'm a - a goddamn stepmother. Kind of. I'm a - fuck, I don't even know what I am." he began to laugh, but it was a short, brittle laugh that made the tears come again. "I don't know what I am."  
Eric didn't know what to say; Joey turned over again and Eric rubbed his back.  
"I'm sorry, Joey."  
"I'm not an anything. Not a real anything, anyway. Not even a real carrier."  
Eric shook his head and gripped Joey's arm.  
"Yes, you are a real carrier. You wear the same clothes. Live the same life. You're as much a carrier as the rest of them."  
Joe shrugged, but his back was tense and Eric could tell he had something more he wanted to say.  
"Can't have kids."

Eric exhaled silently. So that's what this was about. Joey's hormones played havoc with his security in their relationship - one week it was that he wasn't masculine enough, then he wasn't feminine enough, then Eric was cheating on him - every week, some monstrosity of his imagination that meant he would end up alone. Didn't he understand that Eric would never leave him, ever? Eric let his hand drift down to rub some of the tension out of Joseph's lower back. Joe relaxed a little, but with much effort.

"Joey, I don't need that from you. I've got four kids, and I love them all, but I'm almost 60 years old. I've been raising the little animals for 30 years now. Vicious beasts. Only good for Christmases and filling up the stage at a graduation. I'm done with that now. Just you and I is fine by me."

Eric shifted his weight so to be closer to Joseph, and felt his mate tense at his approach. He drew back.  
"What else is on your mind, Joey?"  
Joey glanced over his shoulder at him, then turned back away.  
"I'm not 60."  
Eric tilted his head.  
Joe glanced up again, perhaps to gauge his husband's reaction.  
"I'm 37. And I love the boys. But they're not mine. Before I even got here, they were all grown men."

Understanding began to dawn on Eric. Joseph was shivering his leg in the nervous way he did when he was thinking too hard about something.

"You have four kids. But I have none."  
Eric frowned, then laid back down, flush to his husband's back, and exhaled.  
"So what do you want to do?"

~:~

Jesse couldn't cross his legs tight enough not to feel exposed in a natori. He didn't know how his mother did it. Although, when he reflected on it, he really only remembered seeing her in jeans, and long skirts for when she went dancing. Maybe this was why. Michael had insisted upon a light blue natori for today, with deep fuchsia patterning in shapes that vaguely suggested plants. Everyone had insisted it was wonderful. Jesse wanted it to burn. He shifted again in his seat, crossed his arms over his chest, and wished he had another drink.

The professor, a carrier in his thirties with clean black hair that he kept pulled back and olive skin, situated himself squarely in front of Jesse's desk. He was wearing khakis and a wrinkle-less white T shirt. Jesse envied him. The professor kept speaking, making some sort of indicative gestures with his hands. He turned to Jesse. Aw, man. Jesse knew what was coming. Please don't please don't please don't please -

"And what did you think of the reading, Mr. Paik?"  
Fuck. What reading?  
"It was great."  
the Professor raised an eyebrow.  
"Great?"  
Fuck.  
"Uh, the composition of it - the use of words, of language. Very skilled writing."  
The professor made a strange face at Jesse which eventually resolved itself into a look of interest.  
"Alright. Very unexpected response, there, Mr. Paik. Most readers would have overlooked the technical dexterity of the writing in light of its somewhat controversial subject matter. An intriguing perspective, Mr. Paik. I expect Ms. Graglia would thank you."  
the Professor moved on, thankfully, and Jesse breathed a sigh of relief.

He skipped lunch because he didn't want to be seen in the cafeteria dressed like some kind of fucking flower garden, but shortly after noon, Ortega showed up at his room with Torréon, Vichy, Sai, and Suleiman in tow.  
"Damn. And I was just settling in for a nice afternoon of resenting authority."

Ortega rolled his eyes and ignored this as he pushed his way into the room. Torréon walked over to Jesse and promptly began chewing on his foot. Vichy and Sai set up lunch on the desk across from Vichy's bed while Suleiman lowered himself into  
Vichy's sumptuous reading chair - a gift from Aniston - and watched silently.

"So you and Michael had a fight."  
Jesse rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to ask how Sai knew. Vichy. The fucking CEC Sentinel.  
Jess looked with interest at the food that his roommate was unpacking.  
"There was an unpleasantness. Words were exchanged."  
"What did you do?" Vichy asked, beginning to pick at a pile of carrots.

Tega was busy studying himself from various angles in Jesse's mirror.  
"I didn't do anything. Michael told me I'm a liability. He said I - what is he doing?"  
Vichy glanced over to Ortega.  
"He thinks he's beginning to show."  
"Tega, you're what, a couple of weeks in? Nothing's going to show."  
Tega let his shirt drop back down and just stared at his reflection for a minute.  
"Seven weeks." he corrected quietly. "It's been seven weeks now."

Jesse listened curiously to the strange, flat tone in Ortega's voice. Then, suddenly, there was an energy in his voice, a wild excitement that thinly masked an abject desperation.  
"So only thirty-three more weeks to go! - isn't that great? It'll be here in the summertime! A summer baby! I love babies! And I always wished my birthday was in the summer and now - "  
Ortega broke off as he realized the room were all staring at him.  
"What? What?!"  
Vichy got to his feet, approaching his friend slowly.  
"Tega, maybe you better sit down."  
Ortega shook his head furiously.  
"I'm fine! Fine, guys. Just excited, that's all! I'm really excited! I'm really really excited that is all! Honest! I love kids!"  
Vichy reached out and took hold of Ortega's arm, began pulling him towards the makeshift lunchtable.  
"No no no, guys, I'm fine, I love kids, it's OK!"  
Suleiman made a strange face, but didn't move. Jesse hesitated where he was, not wanting to upset Ortega further, just watching the scene play out. Vichy tried to soothe him into a chair.  
"I know you love kids. You're going to do great. Now let's get you something to eat because I think that will probably help."  
Tega's face darkened.  
"I don't need any _help_! I don't need your help! I'm fine! Fine! Aren't you listening to me?! I'm OK!"  
Vichy nodded, twisting the cap off a litre of water and pouring a glass for his friend. Tega's breathing was becoming panicky and erratic.  
"I am listening. And I believe you. But aren't you hungry, Ortega? We had a long class today. We were all just about to eat."

Tega gripped the arms of the chair he was seated in and hesitated. Some of the dark cloud lifted from his face. Vichy turned deliberately away from him and went to sit on the bed. Then suddenly, like a wisp of smoke brushed away by the wind, the strangeness, the bizarre up-energy was all gone. Ortega shook his head, swallowed thickly, and nodded.  
"Yes. I'm starving. Let's eat."  
Jesse stared at Ortega, then glanced over to Vichy. Vichy just shook his head. Nothing more was said about it.

"So are you?"  
"Am I what?"  
"A liability."  
Jesse sighed.  
"I don't know. Maybe. Yes. They hate me."  
Sai chewed on the end of a churro, laid out on his back on Vichy's bed, his shiny black hair fanning out around his head.  
"So what are you going to do?"  
"What do you mean 'what am I going to do'?"  
"I mean you like the man, right? Obvi' do. Can't leave him, anyway, or else you're dead." Sai talked around a larger-than-appropriate bite. "Gotta make him happy. If you set it up so he resents you, he lets you go and then he's your executioner. Make him feel guilty about that, but keep him miserable for the rest of his life and you become his. So what are you gonna do?"

Jesse bit uncomfortably into a piece of bread, a little dumbfounded. He hadn't really thought of that before.

"I see by your silence that you hadn't really thought of this before. Well, that's pretty much how it is for you and him. Poetic, man. You are each other's curse and salvation. Dig?" Sai took another bite of the churro, chewed and swallowed. "So don't be a dick."

~:~

"Ai!"  
Tiger yelped as cold fingers touched him.  
"Sorry. Tell me what hurts."  
"It all hurts."  
"Tell me what hurts the most."  
Tiger nodded. The Doctor prodded him gently, testing for sore spots.  
"There. There. There. There."  
the Doctor made a sound of suspicion.  
"I said 'hurts the most'."  
"They all hurt the most!"

The Doc sighed and sat back, snapping the gloves off his hands as he turned to Miljan. Tiger dove back under the blankets of Havar's bed.  
"I can get dressed now?"  
the Doctor shook his head. In the background, Yavisk paced near the windows and Havar sat quietly in a chair.  
"In a minute. Miljan, he's fine. The change will take a little more than another week, but he is healthy excepting that."

The Doctor began writing in a chart, then glanced up at Tiger and turned to Miljan, switching to Serbian.  
"How are his emotions?"  
Miljan made a face at the imperfect translation.  
"He seems to be in good spirits. Asks for his father a lot. Hasn't been hysterical or claustrophobic."  
the Doctor nodded.  
"Well, watch him. The young ones - you can never tell which way they are going to go. Sometimes, they are happy, then bam! they lose it. Pay attention."

Miljan inclined his head. The Doctor turned back to Tiger, who was listening intently to the conversation, attempting to pick out words. Still writing in the chart, the Doctor asked him in English:  
"Tiger, are you a virgin?"  
Miljan made an indignant sound.  
"He's not even changed yet. You think I touched him? I'm not that kind of man. I haven't laid a finger on him."  
Tiger looked between the two of them. The Doctor watched him for a moment, then raised an eyebrow.  
"Very well. Tiger, are we in accordance?"  
Tiger nodded. The Doctor shut his chart.

"Alright. Tiger, you seem to be in good health, well taken care of. You need to take these vitamins I've given you. Twice a day, and drink lots of fluids because even though it may not seem like it, your body is really exerting itself right now. If you notice more fatigue then usual, give me a call. You can get dressed now."  
"Čekaj."  
the Doctor looked up at Miljan.  
"Da?"  
"Kontracepcija."  
the Doctor blinked at him for a minute.  
"Zašto?"  
Miljan rolled his eyes.  
"Too young. He's only seventeen."

The Doctor looked surprised, then half-grinned and turned back to his patient, who was listening intently.  
"Well, Tiger, it appears your husband has a heart." Tiger glanced up at Miljan quizzically. "I'm going to leave you with a syringe today. As soon as your change is completed, you're going to need to inject yourself with it."  
Tiger shook his head.  
"I can't do that. What is it for?"  
"Miljan will do it, then. It's to balance your hormones. Can you remember to do that?"  
Tiger nodded.  
"How much longer will it take?"  
the Doctor looked at his anxious face and patted his arm to soothe him.  
"I'm not sure. Not much longer. Ten days, maybe, at the outside."  
Tiger nodded and exhaled. The Doctor packed his bag and stood.  
"I'll be back to see you and Havar in about a week or so. Be good till then." he shouldered his bag and ruffled Tiger's hair with his free hand. "Don't let the old grouch scare you."  
The Doctor winked at Tiger and Miljan narrowed his eyes at him and ushered him to the door.


	37. November 24

**Thursday**

Joey and the Admiral were scheduled to leave in the afternoon. First train out to home would depart an hour after Michael's first meeting as captain. They had breakfast together, just the three of them, at the table by the window in his parents' suite. Joey didn't talk much; the Admiral talked incessantly. Michael just listened. Ate his eggs and wondered if he could keep having mornings like this. He wondered if he could add up all the time he'd spent with his family. It wouldn't ever be enough. He could eat these eggs all day, he decided, with his father just talking and Joey making faces at the bravado in his stories and him thinking vaguely of his brothers and the three of them just happy here, together in their own little corner of the windblown world.

When Michael returned home later that day, there were piles of folded clothes and a stack of soap from Joey sitting beside a note from his father reminding Michael how much they loved him.

~:~

The worst days in life always come out of nowhere. There's no buildup. No crescendo. Not like good days. Good days - birthdays and holidays and weddings and promotions - those you see coming for miles. You look forward to them. You plan for them. You buy special clothes and get a haircut in anticipation of them. Not like bad days. Not like this.

"Sai-ai..."

Sai took two more steps backwards, felt the rough concrete wall press against his back. He took an unsteady breath. Maybe he could try for the door.

"You're _sick_ , Scotty. Stop it, man. Come on." he shook his head and tried to act natural, act confident. Stare him down. He'd heard if you looked straight in a dog's eyes you could intimidate them, show them _you_ were the boss. Maybe that worked on friends of yours who had lost their fuckin' minds and started trying to pull your legs apart, too.

Sai hadn't come seeking trouble; no way, no how. All he'd wanted was a little green to smoke with a few friends - let his hair down, have a good time. The kind of thing he used to be able to do, back before his shit got all crazy and the government came looking for him. Honestly. That was all he'd wanted. No big deal, no trouble. Just a little herba buena and he'd be happily on his way. He had done this once, twice, a million times before. No complications, no interest. Scotty had never so much as looked twice his way.  
  
Until today.

Today he'd gotten friendly. Today he'd had a lot of questions to ask - how old Sai was and how long he'd been a carrier. Where he'd come from. There was a couch - really, an old bench with some blankets on it - in the storeroom, and Hunter, Scotty's sidekick jock friend, had been sitting on it, toking and just getting relaxed. Scotty was in his chair. He'd invited Sai to sit down, told him to just take a break, relax like it was old times and nothing wild was going on out in the crazy world. Things could be rough on men these days, especially ones that found themselves in a particular kind of way. They were in a bind together, anyway, he'd said, had each other by the balls. Sai could turn him in; Scotty could do the same. No sense not being friends.

Sai had sat down.

Scotty talked to him while he cut and weighed coke, his fingers moving skillfully, quickly across the table. Sai hated watching him do it; it felt like too much, like he knew more than he'd like to. He just liked to get his weed and get out of there. He didn't want to sit. Then they'd kept talking and he'd started relaxing a little, taken a few hits from Hunter's spliff and started to lean back into the couch. Scotty asked him if he'd ever tried white.

Sai shook his head, said he didn't do blow, didn't like that vibe.  
Scotty said come on, Sai. Just once.  
Sai said he'd rather not.  
Scotty said he thought that was suspicious.  
Hunter moved in his seat. Things seemed to get tense. After about fifteen minutes of arguing, there was no reasonable extraction.

"Sai-ai..."

Scotty came a little closer to him, broke the invisible wall of tension that had grown up between them. Invaded that space where you knew the second the line was crossed there wasn't any undoing - no going back now, like the minute they caught you with your hand in the jar and you knew your best option was to take what you had and run with it.  
Scotty chuckled and continued his approach.

"Where you running to, Sai? The door? You're not gonna make it to the door. Gonna try to make it past Hunter, past me? This is my house, remember? You're in my space. No windows, no cameras. You said it made you feel safe. Free to do as you pleased. To come down here and take me up on my offer."

Sai heaved back against the wall and shook his head. Scott was within striking distance. Could he take him? Sai had wondered this before. In fact, the first time Javier had brought him down here he'd been pretty freaked out, and had come up with about a hundred different contingency plans to handle any trouble that might arise. A hundred ways to escape. A hundred ways to kill a soldier. 

Those plans felt hollow now. They had just been idle fantasy; the paranoid wanderings of his scared little-fish mind.  
This was real.This was happening. He decided to try to talk his way out of it. His head felt bright, clear. The lights were a little bit blinding.

"Scotty! Come on! You know me, brah!"  
"I know you've got to pay me."  
"I _did_ pay you!"  
Scotty clucked his tongue.  
"Ah, just for the green. What about my white, baby?"  
Panic was making it hard to think clearly; his heart was pounding. Could he run? He should run. He could run so fast, he bet. So fast. Ah, but where was - where was he running to? Fucking bright lights made it hard to think. He was hot, and desperate not to be thought a thief. "You said it was on the house, man!"  
Scotty cocked his head.  
"Did I? I'm sorry, sweetheart. Price went up."

He took another step closer. Sai could smell him, could smell the sweat on him, the rank scent of herb and outside cold from being on duty all day. His head was spinning. He felt antsy, eager, itchy.

"Stay the fuck back from me, Scott!"

There were two figures now, Scotty approaching, Hunter covering his back. Sai glanced around - left, right, up, even and down. Nothing. Walls. Ahead of him there was a table illuminated under a bare bulb. Six pounds of hash and a quarter kilo of coke sat on a low shelf behind it.

"I'll tell. I swear I'll tell. I'll bring this whole fuckin' thing down on your heads."  
Scotty laughed.  
"No, you won't."  
"Try me on for size, man, just try me."  
Scotty grinned; there was desperation in Sai's voice.

"Aw, now, you don't mean that. That's just my snowstorm talking to you, sweetheart. All that power, all that _rage_ \- it's just my white lady talking. Just come over here; come to daddy. I'll make you feel even better."

Scott flicked two fingers at Hunter, who lunged for Sai. Sai leaned to the side, prepped himself to take a hit and retaliate, when a blow he had not been expecting came from Scotty's side. His skull cracked backwards, into the wall.

"Fuck!"

Stars danced in front of his eyes. He threw himself forward, into the fray, slammed one shoulder into whatever was in front of him and felt it satisfyingly connect with Scotty's stomach. He got two good hits in, one to the kidneys, before Hunter was one his back, trapping one arm and pulling him down to the ground. He growled and tried to kick, but unbalanced them both and ended up facedown on the concrete with Hunter on top of him and Scotty halfway standing above them, still cradling his stomach. He was wheezing, and when he looked down at Sai, his eyes were filled with malice.

"You son of a bitch. You _son of a dog fucking whore_ , I'm gonna kill you."

Sai felt a little bite of fear, but he was so stretched on adrenaline and the residuals of the long line before that it was just fuel to the fire. He wrestled harder to get free from Hunter.

"Come for it. _Come for it_ , you fuckin' pussy!"

Scotty cough-laughed, turned behind him to the table, opened a drawer, and came back with a hammer and a rope. Just as true fear was setting in, a slam against the door seized the room. Another thud, like something heavy hitting it, then a third and the door gave way to reveal another officer, standing in the hall, looking very, very angry.

"Do it and you'a dead, boy."  
Scotty turned to face off the new opponent.  
"And just who _the fuck_ are you?"  
The man shook his head.  
"Don' worry bout who I am. You jus' let him go."

Scotty straightened up, tensed his chest. Sai recognized the preparations of someone about to do something stupid. The man must have seen it, too, except he had surprise on his side and the fact that Scotty was already hit. Although Scott was a good fighter, he wasn't ready for this attack; it wasn't an even struggle. The man took one good hit to the jaw, but for the most part, Scott went down fast. Hunter tightened his arm around Sai's neck, unsure whether or not he should let him go and help his friend. The man got one last punch in, let Scott fall to the floor, handcuffed him, and turned to Hunter.

"Give 'im a me."  
Hunter shook his head.  
"I don't wanna ask you again."  
Hunter seemed to consider this. He glanced around.  
"You alone?"  
The man nodded. He was holding both hands out in front of him, approaching slowly. Sai noticed blood on the side of his face.  
"You never saw me. I wasn't ever here." Hunter demanded, shaking Sai as he did so.  
The man nodded. Sai felt the air come rushing back into his lungs as Hunter released him and ran. The man rushed over, helped Sai up to his feet.  
"You alright, cher?"  
Sai nodded. He felt dizzy and hot. He wanted to lie down. He aimed for the couch.  
"Whoa, whoa. Now, now, come on, let's get you outta here and upstairs before you do all that."  
Sai's head swam. He nodded. Then the room went all kinds of funny colors before settling on black.

~

When he woke up, he was in the infirmary and a strange man and Sloane were standing on either side of him. He could see a nurse, seated in a chair in the far corner of the room. The man looked vaguely familiar. Sai tried to place him. He was tall, maybe six foot, and slim, with short, dark hair and mischievous hazel eyes.

Sai wondered where he knew him from. He blinked and tried to think. Weed. Javier. Scotty. The storeroom. A Cajun. A fight. A kilo of coke. It all seemed like a bad dream. He lifted his arm. It had an IV in it. Fuck. That wasn't a good sign. He tried to talk. His mouth felt chalky and dry. He talked anyway.

"Hey, guys, howzit? I'm fine, you know. Just got a little lightheaded on my way back from the gym."  
The strange man looked at him with mixed amusement and interest. Sloane just looked at him with anger. Sai considered this for a moment and swallowed.  
"So...am I busted?"  
A low laugh came from the man at the side of his bed.  
"Yea. I'd say you'a busted, cher."

Sloane cleared his throat.  
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Broussard." Sai blinked ignorantly at him. "Of the Anti-Narcotics Division."  
"Ooh."  
"Yeah, 'ooh'." Sloane snapped, before recollecting himself. "He wants to ask you a few questions."  
Sai glanced to the side.  
"I don't remember anything."  
Broussard laughed.  
"Alors pas, I bet you don't. Sloane, might I just have a few minutes alone with Mr. Wyatt?"

Sloane hesitated, but Broussard gave him a reassuring smile.  
"Just five minutes. Two forms we gon' discuss, few questions on the incident, and then he's all yours again."  
Sloane glanced back at Sai, who shrugged and looked bewildered. Sloane looked up at Broussard again.  
"Five minutes. I'll be right outside."  
Broussard smiled and held the door open for him.  
"And I thank you kindly for it, messieur."

The door clicked shut. Broussard locked it and turned to face Sai. "Alright, sweetheart," he said, and Sai's pulse jumped twenty beats, "Les' you an me _talk_."

~:~

By the time Jesse walked in to the cafeteria, Michael had already arrived, and was sitting alone at a table for two by the window facing the south woods.  
"Hey."  
Michael jerked a little, and smiled up at Jesse.  
"Hey."

Jesse looked around and sat down quickly, hoping nobody saw. He was wearing another blue natori that Michael had left for him. Apparently his fiancé liked the color. There was a mug of coffee on the table for him and a half-drunk one in front of Michael. Jesse leaned forward and took his up sullenly.

"So I wanted to talk to you," his fiancé began.  
"I **hate** these natoris, Michael."  
Michael rolled his eyes, nervously rubbing the coffee cup back and forth in his hands.  
"Right. I know. Everyone knows. But listen - "  
"Everybody looks at me funny."  
Michael twisted his fingers through the cup's handle and rolled his eyes.  
"No, they don't. Listen, Jesse - "  
"I look stupid." Jesse pouted around a sip of coffee. Michael shook his head.  
"No, you don't. You just - "  
"When are you gonna give me my clothes back?"  
Michael released the coffee cup completely, rubbing his palms together.  
"Soon. Listen, I have something - "  
"It's really unfairly emasculating, you know. I mean - "  
"Jesus, Jesse! I'm trying to talk here!" Michael finally shouted, exasperated. Jesse stopped with his mug halfway to his lips and stared up at his fiancé in surprise. Michael sighed. "Listen: I have something I need to ask you, and I'd kind of like it if maybe you could _actually listen_ to me for a little while."  
Jesse frowned at the slight.  
" _OK_." he sassed back. Michael ignored this.  
"Thank you." he took a deep breath. "I would like - I would like it very much," he began, then coughed and set the coffee mug down and rubbed his hands on his knees, "I would like it if - if you would marry me." he finally finished, and looked up at Jesse with hopeful eyes and a worried expression. Suddenly remembering himself, he then produced from nowhere a small black box, which he opened and set on the table. He withdrew his hands and folded them neatly behind his coffee cup, then looked beseechingly up at Jesse. 

Jesse stared at the box.  
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, finally, after too many seconds of silence.  
A strange look seized Michael's face, then it closed off and his expression became unreadable.  
"I mean, it was only if you wanted to; I - I wasn't trying to make things difficult or put any pressure on you. I didn't mean to violate your space or - or our relationship or anything and I know this is new, but I just thought it might be nice if - " Jesse laughed and he put down his cup to link hands with Michael.  
"No, no, I didn't mean it like that. I just meant - aren't we already engaged?"  
Michael's grin returned and he half-shrugged.  
"I never really asked you before."  
Jesse looked down at the small black box and its simple, pretty ring, then up at Michael, who was looking so adorably hopeful.  
"Thank you, Michael. Obviously, yes."  
Michael smiled wide and Jesse was surprised to realize that he was actually worried he might've gotten a no. Michael squeezed his hand and leaned across the table to kiss him, practically buzzing with excitement.  
"Great. Let's get married."

Jesse put the ring on; it was nice - a simple, brilliant silver with no stones, engraved instead with the pattern of two vines. He smiled. It didn't look bad on his hand.  
"Sounds like a plan. When?"  
"Friday."  
"What?"  
"Friday. Let's get married."  
Jesse blinked rapidly.  
"That's fast."  
"I know!"  
"That's soon."  
"Yup."  
"That's...tomorrow."  
"Yes! I don't want to wait."  
Jesse frowned again.  
"Nobody will be able to come."  
"Sure they will! Your friends are all here; your mom's just up the road. We'll grab a priest and make it legal!" Jesse considered this.  
"Well, what about your parents? They left this morning."  
"No, they didn't."  
"What?"  
"No, I called them back and told them to stay."  
"Um..."  
"I got back from my meeting, and I realized - _I want to do this_."  
"Michael. I think you're - "  
"I want my family to happen now."  
"OK. Let's just think this over. Maybe - "  
"Jesse, please." Michael met his eyes; his face was full of hope, of excitement, of loneliness and poorly restrained glee. "This is how it's all going to end up anyway. I just want to save us some time. And some hassle. I hate living in this tenuous position with you. I hate not ever being sure that they will let me take care of you. I hate not being sure about our place in this world. I hate not being sure about us."

Jesse didn't know if he liked the sound of that.  
"Michael, I don't know - "  
"And Jesse, fuck all: I'm in love with you."  
Jesse grinned.  
"Alright, well I guess _maybe_ we could - "  
"YES!"  
A few tables in the cafeteria turned to look at Michael's triumphant outburst. Michael quickly smothered his reaction and squeezed Jesse's hand again.  
"Thank you, Jesse." he kissed the hand which held his. "I love you madly. And I promise I will always do everything in my power to make you happy."

Jesse nodded and squeezed Michael's hand back. He dragged his eyes up across the places they touched - the ring, his hand; then to Michael's chest because he wondered if he could see his heart thumping like in those crazy old cartoons; then finally, to Michael's eyes.  
"I promise I'll do the same."


	38. November 25

**Friday**

Morning.

In the old days, it would have been Thanksgiving. Michael reflected on that fact while he paced, waiting in the hallway for Jesse's physical to be over. He'd gotten the first appointment he could manage in the morning. The sun wasn't even up yet. Michael wondered what the holidays would have been like in the old days for him. He'd seen pictures before, in textbooks and old magazines, of people together, smiling, surrounded by their families. They looked happy. It looked nice.

The door clicked open and Michael looked over to where Jesse was stepping out, a couple of papers and a small stack of pamphlets in his ringed hand.  
"All done?"  
Jesse nodded.  
"All done."

He didn't look at Michael, preferred to occupy himself with something in the stack in his hand instead. Michael dipped a brow and came over to him.

"You in the clear?"  
"In the clear."  
Michael took his hand, trying to draw Jesse's attention to him. It didn't work; the papers were much more interesting.  
"You OK?"  
Jesse nodded, but still didn't look up at him.  
"I'm fine. Let's go."

~:~

Sai woke up cold sweating on the sofa in Suleiman's room. He'd been sleeping there since Grant and Honesty had gone. He hadn't felt safe in his room anymore. Too many ghosts. Here was better. Here, he had the easy in-and-out of Suleiman's breath to keep him company at night, and when Ortega was home, he rustled and kicked and constantly moved so that even when Sai woke up in the middle of the night, he knew not to be afraid - he wasn't alone.

Right now, he felt alone. He looked around - Suleiman was sitting up in bed, watching him. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to catch his breath.

"What did you dream about?" Suleiman asked, his voice even as ever.  
Sai blinked his eyes and tried to finish waking.  
"Sharks." his breath calmed as his sense of balance started to come back. "I dreamt about sharks."

~:~

"Clint, Clint, no, Clint, cut it out, Clint, STOP IT!"

Sloane wriggled free of his fiancé's arms and fell over the edge of the bed, ending up sprawled naked on the floor. He groaned, rubbed his head, and looked up to see Clint peeking down at him.  
"Uh...whoops."  
Sloane glared.  
"Clint," he said, wearily. "It is five a.m." Clint looked a little contrite about this. "Do you think I like waking up this way?"  
Clint looked a little hangdog about it. He reached one hand down to pull Sloane back up.  
"Sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye."  
Sloane ignored the hand and got to his feet, dragging the sheet off the bed in the process.  
"Ugh. Well, say it with your mouth, not your _dick_."

Clint looked a little offended, but Sloane stalked nude past him to the bathroom and he forgot about it and got up to follow him. The bright light blinded them both momentarily, but Sloane pressed on past it and went over to start brushing his teeth. When he looked into the mirror, Clint was standing behind him, giving up his best pitiful but also sex-hungry look.

Sloane shook his head and talked around his toothbrush.  
"Doesn't work on me."  
Clint glanced to the side, realigning his strategy.  
"I got you a present."

In the past four days, Clint had gotten him six presents. And they'd had sex nine times. Almost ten, if Sloane had slept a couple of minutes longer. In fact, Clint had been his ever-present shadowing un-losable super-attached bestest friend for an entire week now, and it was starting to drive him a little bit crazy. And now another present. Sloane rinsed his mouth and blinked at Clint in the mirror.

"What is it?"  
"A cat."  
"I hate cats."  
"A dog."  
Sloane rolled his eyes.  
"Clint, what is this about?"  
Clint sat on the lid of the toilet and mumbled something.  
"What?"  
he mumbled again.  
"It's five a.m. I'm not interpreting your mumble-talk."  
"I'M TRYING TO BE NICE!"

Sloane's eyes widened and he turned around to look at Clint.  
"What?"  
"I said 'I'm trying to be nice'."  
"Why?"  
"No reason."  
"Bullshit."  
"No reason, Sloane! _Fuck_! Can't I ever do anything right around here?! You act like I'm some kind of fucking nutjob, like I don't know how to do anything nice!"  
"You don't."

Clint raised a hand to slap him, but stopped and just pumped the air instead.  
"Aw, fuck you, Sloane!"  
"It's five a.m. Why are you yelling?"  
Clint stood up, facing off to Sloane.  
"Cuz you don't fuckin' listen!"  
Sloane stepped back, away from him.  
"People are sleeping."  
"So? Let 'em fucking sleep, I'm not bothering them."

Clint pushed past him to reach for a towel.  
"I'm gettin in the shower. I gotta be on duty at 6."

Sloane tilted his head and watched him turn the water to hot and glance around for the soap. When Clint stepped into the glass cubicle, Sloane went directly back into the bedroom to try to get fifteen more minutes of sleep. He was conscious through the water running, but must have dozed off before it finished, because when he woke up, Clint was dressed and standing over him in the dark, one hand stroking his hair. He jumped. Clint jumped, too, and stepped away. Sloane imagined him scowling, although he couldn't see anything through the dark.

"I'm leaving. I set your alarm for 6:30. And you need some more shampoo. I'll bring it when I come back tonight."  
Sloane tried to get free of the covers enough to sit up, but Clint was already at the door.  
"You're not on duty tonight?"  
"No. I'll see you later."  
Clint hesitated a moment at the door. Sloane propped up on his elbows and stared at him.  
"Don't you have anything to say to me?"

Sloane wracked his brain to try to remember if he'd missed something. A birthday? Anniversary? Promise of some sort?  
"Uhhh..."  
Clint exhaled annoyedly.  
"Fine. Bye, Sloane. Have a nice day." he snapped.  
Oh. That.  
"Bye. Have a nice - " the door slammed. Clint was already gone.

~:~

Tiger woke up from a pretty nice dream ridiculously early because something in the bed was ringing.  
He blinked his eyes, looked around to try to focus them. It didn't work. He decided to find the ringing thing by touch instead of sight. He put two hands out. They met a warm body.

"Ahh!"  
"Šta?! Šta?! What is it?? Tiger, what's wrong?!"

Miljan was awake immediately, on full alert, sitting straight up in bed. He looked around wildly.

"Tiger! Tiger! What happened?!"  
Tiger ignored him and began searching the bed. The ringing was incessant.  
"Nothing's wrong! You woke me up! You weren't here when I fell asleep! I was confused! I was having a good dream, too, when your stupid thing woke me. There was a beach and a dog and my friends!"

He kept searching for the object of his ire, which seemed to be lost among the multiple, lush, fluffy blankets. Miljan dragged a hand over his face, blinked his eyes, and looked around. He was in his own bed. He didn't fully remember getting here.

"Ah-ha!"  
Tiger produced the small, black noisemaking machine from somewhere inside the covers and shoved it at Miljan.  
"Make it stop!"  
The harangued Miljan took it and pressed his thumbprint to the side. Immediately, the sound disappeared. Tiger peered curiously at it.

"What is that thing, anyway?"  
Miljan tilted his head at it, reading the message that had come across the screen. It could wait.  
"It's called a Bismark. It's for work."

Tiger rolled his eyes and pretended to be uninterested as he watched how Miljan operated it.  
"I hate it when you say that. I'm not an idiot, you know, I can understand if you tell me what you use it for."  
Miljan twisted his back to crack it and laid back down.  
"What time is it?"  
Tiger glanced at the clock on his side.  
"Five thirty."  
Miljan swore.  
"That wasn't nice."  
Miljan looked at him.  
"You understand me?"  
Tiger shrugged.  
"Sort of. I learns. Did you wear your boots all night?"

Miljan glanced down at himself. He'd had a special mission at midnight that hadn't concluded til three.  
"All night since four o'clock."  
"You just walked in here and got in the bed like that."  
Miljan tried to ignore him and go back to sleep. Tiger poked him.  
"Hey. I'm talking to you."  
"Tiger, your husband is tired. Do you really want to wake him?" he put a heavy warning into his voice.  
Tiger ignored it.  
"You can't wear outside clothes in the bed. That's disgusting."

Miljan rolled his eyes, got out of bed, picked up a pillow, and began making up a bed on the floor.  
"Hey!"  
he tried to ignore him again.  
"Hey, I didn't mean it to be mean like that. Just get undressed. You can't wear those clothes to bed, is all."

Miljan was too tired to even make a lewd joke about this. He just numbly got up, dropped himself down in the sitting chair, and began unlacing his boots. On the fourth swing of the lace, he fell asleep. When he woke up, they were gone and Tiger was dragging him to his feet and urging him to step out of his pants. He couldn't stop himself from smiling a little as the teenager struggled to support his weight. He tried to shift off of him, to stand of his own accord. He heard a sound and listened closely. Tiger was talking to himself.

" - just stubborn about it. Military. All the same. Can't even take care of themselves. Waking other people up out of a clean, warm bed. Five a.m. Who's up at this hour?"

~:~

At seven, Havar woke up with his belly aching of hunger. He glanced over to his right. Yavisk was still sleeping. He could probably get out of bed without disturbing him. He might as well give it a shot. He wanted food, and he didn't want to have to work for it. Thoughts of what Yavisk would make him do next flitted through his head. He remembered what Yavisk had told him last time.  
'I'm hungry.'  
'Then kiss me.'  
he'd shaken his head.  
'Guess you're not hungry enough.'

In a few hours, he'd gone glycemic again. His head hurt; he was dizzy.  
'Kiss me.'  
Shaken his head.  
'Closed legs don't eat, Havar. Kiss me.'  
he had. His mouth tasted like sick. He'd wanted to die.

He wasn't doing that again.

Havar slipped out of bed and tip toed across the cold wood floor, around Yavisk's side, towards the door. Halfway there, he froze, thinking he heard a stir. It was nothing. Just the creaking of the bed. He opened the door as narrowly as he could and still fit through, and left.

~:~

Sai had realized very quickly how much trouble he was in. The Cajun had kept going on about their _situation_ , using frightening terms like 'possession of class 1 narcotics with intent to distribute' and 'conspiracy to undermine government sanctions regarding carrier healthy & safety.' Those were _crimes_. Not fun little slap-on-the-wrist ones, either. Those were _actual charges_. That he might _actually be facing_.

It didn't make any sense. Sai chewed his fingernails down to the quick. Rowe House may not be an automatic option, not with a record of good behavior on his side, but even the Rehabilitation Centre wasn't someplace anyone he knew had ever been. He'd heard it was awful. A place for you to sit while they made you lose your mind. He didn't ever want to see the inside of it. Ever.

Sai was a gentle sort of guy. A lover, not a fighter. He'd be happy just sitting by the water, watching the waves roll in and the tide go out. He wasn't ready to go through this. His legs shook in his natori, and he realized he was trembling. Why had he worn a natori? Probably because he'd known what he would have to do. There was no other option.  
He ate his breakfast listlessly. It was early, and the caf was empty.  
In his hands, he held a note that said Broussard would be in his office all day. He might as well go now.

~:~

It was absolutely ridiculous that Ortega could have this kind of energy before it was even 8 am. Jesse leaned his head on one hand as Tega stood behind him, brushing his hair. There were no knots in it like the last time, but there had been a few rough spots where they'd both flinched about it coming out.

"Almost done."

Tega was teasing it now, combing it into some ridiculous kind of style that he'd been assured he'd like. Vichy was sitting on the bed with Torréon, a bowl of oatmeal in his lap, just taking in all the action.

"This is insane. I can't believe you're getting married."  
"Can we just not talk about it?"  
"I can't believe he's getting married in a couple of hours!" Ortega chirped brightly.  
"You acted like you don't even like men."  
Jesse made a horrified face.  
"That's weird because I am a man. Also, there are only men. So generally, that's just a weird thing to say."

Vichy shrugged.  
"He doesn't like seeming weak, that's what the problem is. It's all his ego."

Ortega pinned something in his hair that scraped him. He wondered if him bleeding would make Ortega stop.

"Yeah. You don't want anyone to know that deep down, you've got this really big, soft heart."  
"Can we talk about something else now?"  
"What color natori are you going to wear?" Vichy asked, swirling his spoon around the oatmeal. Torréon watched it move with interest.  
"Not white, I'm sure."  
Jesse stood up.

"OK, that's enough. Thank you, Tega, my hair looks fine. Thank you Vichy, I'll be wearing a suit. Thank you, Torréon, for being the only quiet one in the room today."

Torréon barked and stood up, excited by all the sudden movement and the mention of his name. Jesse turned to the right, intending to go to the bathroom to get his toothbrush, then suddenly realized he would need to pack to leave afterwards with Michael and turned left, then wondered where they'd be leaving to, since Michael lived on base and turned back again, then realized he was going in circles and just sat down.

Vichy looked at him with a face that was neither entirely amused nor very serious at all.  
"Listen. Just tell us where to be, and what time, and we will be there for you."

~:~

Sai sat post-straight in his chair, his arms stretched out on either arm rest and his hands gripping the ends.

"Look, just...tell me what you want to know. Tell me what names, tell me what dates. I'll give you everything I have. How many officers went. When. What they bought." he paused. "I can do some carriers, too."

Broussard regarded him evenly from across the large, expensive looking mahogany desk. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on it.

"Tell me some."  
"The entrance is at the end of the pathway leading from the main building to the gym. There's a door that looks like a storage unit, but they unlock it during sell times and you can follow it down into the basement."

Broussard raised an eyebrow.  
"How long you been doin this, cher?"  
"Since three months after I got here."  
"And how'd you come to know where to go to fix yourself a share?"  
"Another carrier introduced them to me. He used to buy extra from Scotty for himself and then resell to me but I guess he was afraid he'd get in too much trouble. He stopped."

Broussard indicated the photographs of Scotty and Hunter that lay on the desk.  
"And how much can you tell me about these two bonhommes, Mr. Wyatt?"

Sai looked at him and considered lying. It wouldn't be so hard, would it? Make up some fake names, some dates and times, some things he'd seen - some petty crimes? If screwing two recognized assholes over could get him out of this, he'd screw gladly. Broussard looked at him coolly. He couldn't lie. He was an awful liar. He really wasn't cut out for this.

"Not much. But I will give it to you, all. No lies, no pulled punches. But you have to get rid of my charges."  
Broussard steepled his fingers and put his feet back on the ground. He spun slowly in his chair to face Sai.  
"I got a better deal for you than that, petit."

~:~

The kitchen was still dark when Havar finally found it. Being on the westward-facing side of the house, it was the last room to see the sun rise. He didn't mind. The darkness was sheltering, a comfort meaning he had a chance to hide. In the gray, he could barely make out the shapes of the counters, a cooking island, two stovetops, a bar with stools and a breakfast table with seven chairs. The place was huge. A tiny light flicked on to his left. He dropped to the ground immediately, crouched down in the dark silence.

"I know you're there. You can come out of hiding."

Havar almost passed out at the first few words, but right away recognized it wasn't the voice of his keeper. Didn't sound like Cubrovic either - not familiar enough. He decided to chance it. He stood up. The Doctor held a half a banana out to him and talked around the other half, which he was still chewing.

"Couldn't sleep?"

~

They ended up having a long silent breakfast until far into the early morning. The Doctor picked things out of the fridge, heated things and fried them, went slowly so Havar could learn where everything was. Havar ate, and listened, and watched intently. When the sun began to peek strongly in to the main hallway of the house, he got too scared and when the Doctor's back was turned, he dashed off on tiptoes into the hallway, then back up the stairs and into his own room. Yavisk still was sleeping. He crept around the bed, avoiding the entering sun, rubbed his feet on his pants legs, and got into the bed to try to go back to sleep. Yavisk opened one eye.

~:~

It hurt.

~:~

Afternoon.

Private counseling was cancelled for the day and Sloane made attendance at Jesse's ceremony mandatory, which was utterly unnecessary since no one would have missed it anyway.

Soria arrived just after noon, all gold bracelets and with a scarf wrapped around her long dark hair, under large clothes trying to hide how female she was but failing anyway, walking into his home on an aura of incense and light. Jesse had never understood why it escaped her how beautiful she was. She had a way of appearing in a room as if from a cloud of smoke, a sudden tangible formation, and Jesse had suspected when he was a child that, if he needed her to, like a genie, she would appear anywhere.

Jesse had called her the night before, and Michael had sent a car to come and pick her up; she seemed genuinely overwhelmed with all the attention she'd received, and it only multiplied as soon as she entered the cafeteria with Vichy, Sloane, Ortega, and he. They tried to have lunch, but carriers kept coming up to their table to ask her questions, and she smiled and answered them all but then pleaded Jesse with her eyes to be taken away. Ortega offered to lead the way, and she picked up Torréon and followed him off into Jesse's room, where they hid out until 3 o'clock, when it was time.

At 3, Soria came in to the bathroom, where he was trying to fix his hair and undo whatever pinned foolishness Ortega had tangled him up in. She closed the door behind her and leaned on it for a minute.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  
Jesse looked at her, then back to the mirror.  
"Talk about what?"  
"The wedding."  
"What wedding?"

She didn't respond; only waited.

"There is no wedding. Just a thing. A ceremony. Formality for me and him."  
Soria came over to him, draped her arms around his neck.  
"Jesse. I love you."

He nodded. His eyes felt a bit damp. She took the comb out of his hand and set it down, then stroked his face. He melted. He wanted to run and hide under her bed like he used to. He wanted to cry. What a stupid world. What a stupid place to have somebody cut you down. What a stupid place to be. He wanted his mom to fix it. She hugged him instead.

"It's going to be OK, you know."  
Tears were falling; he dampened her shoulder.  
"I'm sorry you never met him, Mom. I'm sorry I didn't do this right."  
"Jesse, this is life. There is no wrong and right. I'm not angry with you."  
"I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I didn't think - I didn't think it would be this bad."  
"Nothing's bad, honey. You're OK."  
"I'm sorry I cut you out. I didn't want you to see me...like this. Like I am."  
"Hush, Jesse, you just had to go away to grow up for a while. That's OK. I'm still here."

"I didn't want you to see me in trouble." Jesse bit a trembling lip. "I didn't want you to see me fail at this, Mom." his explanations didn't make sense, he knew it, but he had to get them out. Had to make her understand. She shook her head.  
"You didn't fail."  
"I thought I could make a difference."  
She kissed the side of his head.  
"I'm sorry for what I am - I didn't mean to hurt you."  
"Jesse, no."  
"I didn't mean to make this happen!"  
"Jesse." She squeezed him tightly in her arms.

"I'm so sorry, Mom, please, I'm sorry."  
he couldn't seem to stop himself; it was all a mess, and he was falling apart.  
"Hush, Jesse, I know."  
"I really don't want to do this, Mom." She didn't answer him again. "But I know I can't get out. I can't get out."

She just rubbed his back and let him keep dribbling tears onto her arm. After a minute, she moved and he looked up at her, feeling somehow bereft. She took his face in both hands, turned it side to side a little just like she did when he was a boy.  
Her voice was low, soothing.  
"Look at that. There he is. All teeth. One nose. Two ears. Both eyes." she held him square in front of her and let their foreheads meet for a second before pulling back. "You look alright to me."

Jesse smiled despite himself, choke-laughed through some of the tears.  
"Let me see your fingers."  
"Mom - "  
"Your fingers!"  
Jesse laughed.  
"They're all there."  
"Toes?!"  
"Ten, and they're fine."

She smiled and brushed back his hair from his face.  
"Well, then, I guess you must be alright."

She leaned forward and looked directly at him.  
"You're going to be just fine, whether you're Jesse Paik or Jesse O'Connor or Jesse WhoeverYouAre. You're going to be OK."

Jesse stared at her, watched her eyes, the little lines of age and thoughtfulness around them. He bit his lip and rubbed his eyes. She shook his shoulders, urgently. Her face looked serious for a second; her eyes went dark.  
"Do you understand me, Jesse? You're going to be alright."

Jess nodded again and sniffed. The heaviness lifted and the light returned to Soria' eyes.

"Now, are you going to get dressed for this non-wedding formality ceremony, or would you rather go out and greet your groom in the buff?"

~:~

The wedding was in the informal chapel in the lower west wing of the Southern Star Centre. It was large enough to hold just a little over fifty people - Michael's parents and two brothers (also spitting images of their father) who lived nearby were in attendance on his side. So were some of his friends from base, and some of his professors, and some old classmates and comrades and a few of the retirees from the veterans' home where, Jesse just then learned, Michael had been coming for six years, once a week, to exchange stories about the way things used to be and read the news aloud. Vichy sat in the second row with Sai and Suleiman; Ortega and James Irvine filled the last seats. Torréon had been explicitly banned by Jesse and was not in attendance. Sloane walked in, took one look at the full row and wished for a minute that Clint wasn't on duty because then at least he wouldn't have to walk alone to some random seat and everyone wouldn't see that he was sitting by himself. But just in time to save him, Soria showed up and caught his hand, smiled at him, and asked him if he would sit next to her. She didn't know many people, she said. Sloane felt a pang in his heart that seemed suspiciously like an honest, dedicated love.

Up at the front, Michael wore his formal uniform; Jesse wore a dark blue suit but had his hair braided and pulled back in the way that Ortega liked.

At 3:37, the music started.  
At 3:49, they said their vows.  
At 3:57, they were married.

As they left the altar and Michael led the way out of the room, the only thing that Jesse could clear his head enough to understand was the funny fact that it hadn't seemed so simple coming in from the other side.

~:~

Joey had miraculously managed to arrange for a private room and dinner on such very short notice, and there was even cake - just simple stuff, nothing very fancy. Soria sat next to the Admiral, with Sloane on her other side, and chatted and charmed him until Joey began getting jealous and she switched her attentions to him instead.

By the time Joey felt sufficiently flattered to like Soria again, most of the small meal had been eaten and all of the wine had been drunk. Jesse appeared then, tapping his mother on the shoulder. Michael stood behind him.

"Mom?"  
She turned and smiled at him.  
"I have to go now."  
Soria glanced at Michael, then back to Jesse and nodded.  
"OK, sweetheart." she kissed him on the cheek. "Be good. Remember what your mother told you."

Jesse hugged her, and held on to her a long time.  
Eventually, he whispered into her hair,  
"I'll be OK, right?"  
She rubbed her cheek against his head.  
"You'll be alright. My Jesse will be fine."

~

As soon as they were gone, Sai got up from the table where he was seated with the group, and went over to edge into the empty chair next to Sloane.

"Hey."  
Their fearless group leader looked cautiously at him from the side of his eye.  
"Hey."  
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Sloane looked longingly at his half-full glass of wine. He picked up the water instead.

"Sure. What's going on?"  
Sai had his gaze firmly fixed on the tableware. He wouldn't look up at Sloane, wouldn't look around, wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.  
"I think I need a doctor's appointment. Preferably today. Preferably right now."

Sloane took a sip from his glass and turned fully to face Sai. This was not the way he'd wanted to end his afternoon. He only had a few hours before Clint came back, and he'd planned to use them wisely.

"Why do you think you might need an appointment? And why is it an emergency?"

Sai let his eyes wander from the table to the floor, to his hands in his lap, shredding the edges of a small piece of paper, then down to the floor again.  
"This morning, I let Lt. Colonel Broussard fuck me in exchange for dropping my charges."  
Sloane set his glass back on the table.  
"Right. Get your stuff. We'd better go."


	39. November 26

**Saturday**

In his dreams, he was always in India. India was bright in his dreams; it was beautiful glistening orange and ocean pink and blue and bursting brown. It was a place with space for him - a place of love, of his parents, of his childhood and playing in the marketplace, and the sun rising over their home in Cairo. But Cairo was dead. India was alive. India was a place of happiness, of freedom and the crisp excitement with which he could look forward to every new day. In his dreams, India was home.

But they were only dreams. Brian wasn't dead in them, (that was the first clue) and he'd never run away, never been captive, had never smelled the blood and felt the sting, had never cried through his teeth and sworn revenge while his husband fucked him raw. In his dreams, he'd gone straight to India after his parents had left; he'd never bothered with the Union or all its silly rules. In his dreams, he'd stayed on his half of the earth.

But those were only dreams.

~:~

Michael had arranged for three days off, counting the weekend, but that had been all he could manage with his new position just starting the week before, and so he had promised Jesse a proper vacation as soon as they got settled. James Irvine had offered them his guest house for the weekend, but Michael thanked him and elected to take Jesse to his family's small stone house by the shore instead. They took the train out, necking like teenagers in their compartment most of the way down, and in between they told riddles to each other and Michael teased Jesse about carrying him over the threshold of the house.

When they arrived, it had been night time, very late, but they had managed to have one good go at it in the living room and another good double in the bedroom before they spent the rest of the night fast asleep in Michael's father's four poster bed.

In the morning, they made love and shared a shower, then Michael sat on the counter and watched, entranced, as Jesse brushed his hair.  
"Stop staring."  
"I've never seen you do this."  
Jesse snorted.  
"You make it sound like I never try to look nice."  
"Well..."  
Michael left the pause there and laughed when Jesse hit him with the brush.  
"I looked nice enough for you."  
Michael grinned and pulled Jesse into a kiss.  
"Perfect for me."

Afterwards, they put on sweaters and walked down to the local trade shop for foodstuffs and extra blankets. A cold snap was coming in from the north, and its presence made the breeze feel icy where it slipped in through the stone from the water. After shopping, it was breakfast, then sex, then a mid-morning nap and Michael got up and sat down in his father's blue poster chair to read the news.

Halfway through the classifieds, he rustled the paper to get Jesse's attention.  
"So they've given me a house. A place on base. Next week, they want us to move."  
Jesse nodded from the bed.  
"OK."  
Michael flicked his eyes to him, then back.  
"OK?"  
Jesse shrugged.  
"Might be nice to have a house. The Centre's not much of a place. I'll miss the boys, though."  
Michael turned a page in his paper.  
"You can still go to see them. You've got classes to finish, anyway, and there's always activities for carriers going on there."

Jesse made a muffled noise of accord, flipped onto his stomach, and focused on going back to sleep.  
"It's got four bedrooms."  
Jesse turned over in bed.  
"What?"  
"The house. That they gave me." Michael's expression was calm, schooled.  
"Who're the four bedrooms for?" Jesse asked, sensing something was being withheld.  
Michael watched him for a moment, fingering the edge of a smudged page.  
"You and me. And a family, maybe. In the future. And Soria."

At the mention of his mother's name, Jesse woke more fully.  
"Soria?"  
Michael lifted the mug of tea in front of him to his lips to drink, blowing away the steam that rose from the top.  
"They suggested that Soria might want to come and live with us."  
Jesse leaned up on his elbows. Adrenaline surged.  
"Who is 'they' and why are they interested in Soria?"  
Michael shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of Earl Grey.  
"There seems to be a renewed concern for her well-being."  
Jesse's heartbeat sped up.  
"Why? Why do they care? Who cares? Who is they? Nobody cared before. Nobody asked any questions before all this. They said she was as good as dead to them. They said she was an invisible. They said they would leave her alone."

Michael folded the paper and set it down, stretching his fingers out across the table on either side of his pale blue porcelain mug.  
"Well, Jesse, I guess things must have changed."

~:~

Sai chewed his eggs and surreptitiously watched the man sitting at the table across from him. His movements were elegant, refined; _courtly_ might even be the word for it. Sai reflected on this as he tried to fit his mouth around the triple-decker bite-sandwich he'd made out of egg, toast, and sausage on his fork.

Broussard was quietly cutting a crêpe into bite-size squares and politely ignoring Sai's staring. Nice manners for someone who still fetched his own coffee, Sai thought. And how old was he? Mid-thirties, Sai would place him, or maybe older. You couldn't always tell when there was no rank to reference.

His hair was short, a brown color - kind of plain, same as his eyes - but lightly curled around the nape. He was tall, slim but not skinny, and his fingers echoed the build. Sai watched as he sliced his food, his movements like a little on-plate ballet. He spoke French, English, a passable Hindi (Sai had heard him on the phone), and some dialect that had sounded like French at first but quickly veered off into the realm of the incomprehensible. Pidgin? Creole? It seemed like he'd been born well, educated, was fit and certainly not the worst-looking Sai had seen around these parts. All in all, he made an intriguingly nice package, which left Sai with a number of burning questions, not least of which was _So what the **hell** does he want with me?_

Sai dropped a piece of egg from his fork and picked it up with his fingers. Broussard raised one brow. Sai dropped it in his mouth, swallowed, added in the leftover bite, and put down his fork.  
"So let's chat."  
Broussard was chewing and only inclined his head in indication that Sai should go on.  
"Certain things have...happened, between us."  
Broussard blinked at him. Sai made an arching gesture with his hands.  
"I'm just saying let's not get carried away with what they are. Let's not go getting all crazy with the forms and papers and the involving all types of people in uniforms and suddenly there's cake and presents, you know what I mean?" Broussard frowned and swallowed his bite, then picked up another and began to chew. "I mean, I know that's kind of _the vibe_ , that's kind of how things work around here, but I just really don't think it's fair; I don't think any _one_ person should get to decide for somebody else, and honestly, I'm not ready, you know? I mean, I'm not ready to be mommy, I'm not even ready to be _wifey_ , you know? It's just not on the agenda for me right now, just not on my radar. I mean, I'm still getting busted for weed; I can't be spending all my time planning dinner parties." Broussard nodded slowly, swallowed his bite and lifted his napkin to his mouth. "Now, I know it's a little more your call than mine, but I'm just saying: I don't want to marry you."

Broussard took a long sip of his water, then set it down carefully on the table.  
"Well, I suppose that is fortunate, cher, because I don' wanna marry you, either." Broussard took another bite of his crêpe and chewed thoughtfully. "I did want a fuck, and you did deliver." Broussard shrugged as if it were no big deal, then took another bite of his meal.  
"I'm sorry - _what_?" Sai could feel himself turning red. Broussard chewed and swallowed, then went in to pick up another piece.  
"I said I'm not interested in marryin' you, bebe. I _was_ interested in...other things. And most of my curiosity has now been satisfied."  
Broussard leered cheekily at his dining companion. Sai was befuddled.  
"What? No, man, you missed the memo. Everybody wants a carrier of their own." Sai watched for a reaction, but Broussard just shrugged nonchalantly. "And I'm an A Bloc carrier. That pretty much tells it all right there. We're _premier_. That's a fact, you know. Everybody wants one of us!" Broussard made a little moue with his mouth.  
"Well. No' me, cher."  
Sai furrowed his brow. This guy wasn't making any sense.  
"But...carriers are good." he explained, patiently, as if speaking to a child. "If you had a carrier, you'd go up sooner for promotions. And you'd get better housing. And longer vacations. And better...everything, pretty much."  
Broussard shrugged.  
"Well, me - I like my job. I like my house. No little secrétaire ever burnt my coffee jus' the way I like it. I don' need some little carrier to carry around; don' need someone to play my madame."

Sai sat back in his chair.  
"I'm sorry, I really don't understand."  
"Well, yes, I'm sorry, my accent - " Broussard looked up and noticed the expression on Sai's face. "Oh. Oh, coco, I didn't realize." Broussard took his napkin from his lap and set it down on the table, then reached forward for Sai's hands. Sai jerked them away. "Oh, now don't go getting all fâché about it. It's alright if you got a little crush on me. It'll pass in time."  
Sai shook his head.  
"I'm not getting 'fâché', and I don't have a crush on you, I'm just - I mean, I feel like you coulda fucking told me!"  
Broussard cocked his head.  
"Why so spicy? Was I your first, ma coeur?"  
Sai reddened magnificently.  
" _No_!"  
Broussard eyed him disbelievingly.  
"I just - I mean, I had a reasonable expectation of your - OK, whatever, man." Sai threw his arms up in the air. "I don't care."  
Broussard sat back in his chair, looking sincerely perturbed. "What's got you so fa - so fired up, cher? I kept you clean, didn't I? Precaution is always used by a gentleman." Sai gaped at him for almost a full minute.  
"OK, man, you know what? That's fine. That's easy, in fact. Clean break, no problems. I drop trou, you drop the charges. That works great. But I better never hear of this whole little incident showing up in my behavior records again, or else I'm coming for your ass. Got it?"  
Broussard raised an eyebrow.  
"Understood."

~:~

"Tega. Tega, sweetheart."

James tapped his shoulder. Torréon growled fiercely and snapped at James' fingers, then nestled back into the crook of Tega's arm to go back to sleep.

"Oh, come on, now. Don't be grumpy. Wake up."

James picked up the black-and-white fuzzball, who only protested sleepily, and tucked him under his arm. Torréon began to chew idly on his sleeve. James smoothed Ortega's hair back from his face and Tega opened his eyes and sat up, his curls mashed on one side where he'd been sleeping. James smiled at him.

"Hey. Cris and Andy called to say they have breakfast waiting for us at the house. Let's go for a drive. I have something I want to show to you."

~:~

Yavisk fucked him from behind, his right leg propped up awkwardly on the officer's thigh. Havar cried the whole time, half because it hurt more than it should have and half because he was so fucking tired of fighting Yavisk off that he hadn't even resisted, or bothered to say anything.

It was just like he wasn't there. It was like Yavisk wasn't there, Havar wasn't there, there were just two bodies, isolated in silent capsules, and this meeting in between them where they were both busy fucking each other. It was a spectacular silence that fell over them after he was done. The light felt bright in his eyes. Yavisk noticed he was still crying and shoved him away, roughly.

"Go get yourself something to eat."

When he stood, Yavisk's cum ran down his thighs and Havar just kind of froze there for a minute, watching it trickle down towards the rug, not really sure what to do.

"Go wash up first, Havar. Then get dressed." Yavisk sounded weary and annoyed. "Then take yourself downstairs."

As if he had been waiting, the doctor was in the kitchen again. They made eggs and cinnamon apples.  
Yavisk watched them from the stairs.

~:~

"So I know it's not much, but...it's yours. I promise you bigger and better in the future."  
Tega cocked his head and frowned.  
"Why?"  
"Why?"  
"Why are you doing this for me?"  
James laughed.  
"You're my carrier. I can't keep you cooped up all the time. I know being just between the Centre and the house all the time, you're starting to go a little bit crazy. Being inside probably gets a bit stuffy and with the wedding coming up - well, hey, there you go. Consider it a wedding present."

Ortega smiled wanly.  
"It's so nice, James. I love it."  
James frowned.  
"Are you sure? We can get you something else."  
"No, it's fine."  
Tega walked over to it, put one hand on the glossy black finish.  
"It's nice."

James glanced at Ortega, then followed him over to the car. The driver, an older man in a dark suit and cap, stood neatly by its side. James introduced him as Hawthorne. Cris, Andy, Sinclair and Kenneth all watched from the edge of the grassy lot.  
Hawthorne tipped his hat at Ortega as he walked past, dragging his fingers along the body of the vehicle, smudging the shine. James trailed along after him, trying to catch his interest.  
"Hawthorne's deadly in four arts, a sharp shot, and adept at pursuing on foot."  
Hawthorne smiled from beneath his moustache.  
"So don't worry, Mr. Ortega. No one will be getting you away from us."

Ortega nodded and turned silently to go back into the house.  
"Thank you, James. It's very nice."  
James watched him go, his heart feeling torn into very small pieces inside.

~:~

It had happened so fast, Sloane felt like he'd been in a train wreck. But he'd woken up and his sheets were red where he'd been bleeding, so he went to the infirmary and they said it was just a little reaction - to what, they didn't know and then they X-rayed him and took blood and ran a few little tests and told him he was pregnant.

And he didn't have anyone to walk home with, just had to go all alone through those awful cold blue hallways and let himself into his room which was dark because he always turned off the light when he left and then into his bathroom which was the only place in the world where he was positive nobody could hear him if he cried.

He sat down alone on the closed lid of the toilet bowl and didn't look at himself in the mirror and just sobbed because now what was he going to do?

He fell asleep in the bathtub and when he woke up, he saw Vichy there, standing over him.

He helped him go to bed and climbed in beside and said he hadn't meant to intrude, he'd only just come in because Aniston had called to say he'd been reassigned and he wanted Vichy ready to leave by the afternoon. So they left the blinds closed and curled up together and just spent some time. Vichy wished for Jesse; Sloane wished for a way out.

And then when the silence had gone on too long, Sloane said that everyone was leaving, everyone he knew was leaving him and without Vichy or Jesse or Ortega around, he wouldn't know what to do. He was going to have a baby, and nobody was going to help him. Vichy rubbed his back and told him it'd be fine and asked him if he didn't have any family at all who were left.

And Sloane said there had been only his father, who had disowned his abomination of a son when he had changed because he didn't believe Sloane was even a human anymore. Sloane said his dad been drunk, and gone for his gun, and tried to turn the damned dog loose on him, and so he'd just run. He'd ended up at the Centre because he didn't have anywhere else to go, no family to stay with, and not even a friend. He was all alone.

Vichy didn't know what to tell him after that, only to say that the baby would be his family now, and that all of them would be there for him if he needed them. And that he would be fine. The most important thing, he assured Sloane, that you need to remember, is that you will be fine.

Sloane fell asleep, and quietly, and without ceremony, Vichy got up and went back to his room. He wrote notes for all his friends, tucked them under doors and into notebooks, packed everything he owned in boxes, and when Aniston's car came for him at three, he left.

~:~

His cousins had gone away for the weekend, the kitchen was already stocked, he had informed the base that he'd be unavailable for any reason until Monday, and a cold front had brought the looming threat of a snowstorm in. All in all, Miljan decided, there was absolutely no reason whatsoever to go out today. Perhaps he would not even get out of bed. He woke up slowly with his nose nestled into the curls that licked at the nape of Tiger's neck. He smelled warm, a little bit sweaty, and a lot like vanilla, or maybe the scent of a cake just out of the oven. Experimentally, Miljan stuck his tongue out to taste. Tiger squealed.

"What was that?!"  
"Go back to sleep."  
Too late. Tiger rolled over.  
"Did you lick me?"  
Miljan nodded and buried his face in the pillows.  
"And you were delicious. I want more."

Tiger sat back on his knees, scandalized.  
"That is _not_ a nice way to wake somebody up."  
Miljan chuckled.  
"That's true. I can think of nicer." he snaked one hand up between Tiger's thighs to cup his crotch. Tiger yelped.  
"Stop! I haven't even had my shot this morning; you'll make me hurt."  
Miljan retracted his hand.  
"They're in the drawer. Give yourself one."

Tiger shook his head as he dug around. He produced a syringe and handed it to Miljan.  
"You do it."  
"Tiger - "  
"Please?!"  
"Tiger - "  
"I'm scared." Tiger pouted.  
Miljan sighed.  
"Fine." he dragged himself up from his nest of warm Tiger-scented pillows and took the hypodermic from his little mate, who was looking pitifully at him and folding his legs to sit on his butt. Already so early in the morning, but Tiger was full of expression and energy. He would never grow tired of this.

"Fine." Tiger smiled. "But I get to choose the location." Tiger stopped smiling and scowled instead.  
"No. You always choose my butt."  
"Yes, I do. Turn over."  
"It's just an excuse for you to fondle me."  
Miljan held both hands up in a shrug.  
"I told you to do it yourself." he held out the needle. "You still can."  
Tiger hesitated, then his expression became decisive, then smug.  
"I'll just get Bos to do it."

Miljan's face reddened for just a flash of a second, then he adopted a haughty look.  
"Just try. Bos is out of town."  
Tiger narrowed his eyes.  
"Fine. Well played, but the next round I'll win. Just you wait and see."  
Miljan grinned and Tiger continued talking as he dropped his pajama pants and laid down on his side.  
"- way I'm going to keep letting you - OW!"  
"I was quick. You barely felt it."  
"Yeah, I bet you say that to all the carriers."

Miljan had his hands busy putting the cap back on the empty syringe, and so he had to lean down instead to nip Tiger at the junction of hip and body. Tiger yelped, then made a weird noise and relaxed deeply. Miljan stared at him. Tiger took a few shallow breaths then cleared his throat.  
"Oh, um, I meant....'ow'."  
There was a pause.  
"...because that hurt."  
More pause.  
"...when you bit me."  
"Right."

Miljan set the syringe to the side then stretched out behind Tiger, one arm falling comfortably over the crook of Tiger's waist. After a moment, he leaned forward just a little and nipped the back of Tiger's neck.

This time, he didn't even try to pretend. He just moaned and arched his back into Miljan's chest. Miljan grinned. He knew there was no good reason to justify getting out of bed this morning.

~:~

"Tell me what they want with her."  
Michael sighed.  
"Honestly, Jesse, I don't know. Maybe they've decided she's worth a second look. Maybe some lonely retired general has caught wind of a woman in our midst and is interested to try for her. I don't know."  
Jesse put his hands on his hips.  
"Find out."  
Michael exhaled.  
"I'm not Superman, Jesse. I can't just swoop in and start kicking asses and asking questions. These things take time."  
"Soria doesn't have time if people are already looking for her!"  
"She's going to be fine, Jesse."  
Jesse was pacing.  
"This is my fault. I never should have invited her. It was too open, too public. We should have done it at night."  
"Jesse, Jesse, please." Michael stood up and enveloped him in his arms, then pulled him down to the bed. "Nothing is your fault. There is nothing to blame yourself for, mostly because nothing has even happened yet. Soria is fine. Soria will be fine."

Jesse blew his breath out and tried to push his way free.  
"Let go of me."  
Michael's arms tightened.  
"No. Not until you listen."  
Jesse panicked a little and bit him, hard.  
"Ow!! Jesse! _Fuck_!"  
Jess glowered from across the room.  
"Well, I _said_ let me go."

Michael stared at him in disbelief.  
"I can't believe it. You still don't trust me. You still think I'm like them."  
Jesse didn't answer.  
"I'm not Kosin, Jesse, or James or Clint or any one of them! I'm me! Me! Here! Michael! And I care about you! There! Jesse! Why won't you believe that?"

Jesse just continued to glower while Michael exhaled roughly and got up to approach him.  
"Might not want to come near me. I'm still a liability."  
Michael rolled his eyes, swore, and sat down again.  
"Fine. Then you come to me. Please, Jesse, it's our honeymoon. I really, really don't want to fight."

~:~

Sai stewed for most of the afternoon about the whole incident. Broussard had some nerve. He was _lucky_. He was so freaking lucky that Sai had chickened out about going in to the clinic last night. Otherwise? Bam! Sai would finger a culprit, the Centre would investigate, and then what? There was no _way_ the base would tolerate behavior like that from one of its inside men. Sai scoffed as he paced through the hallways. Broussard was one lucky bastard.

He decided he needed an audience with whom to talk this over. Unfortunately, searching turned up only empty seats: Sloane was nowhere to be found, Jesse was off honeymooning, Ortega had gone to the family house with James, and Suleiman was off doing whatever it was Suleiman did most of the time. Vichy had been missing since breakfast.

He went to watch a movie they were showing in the theater, but it was some dumb propaganda flick about a carrier who always dreamt of having the perfect wedding, then got into a lot of harmless-but-fun-and-not-at-all-threatening-to-the-dominant-power-structure hijinks along the way. In the first scene, the protagonist had a monologue about how he'd always imagined his dream husband. A group of young, giggly carriers sitting towards the front with their group leader all sighed. Sai decided that the movie would only be tolerable if he were staggeringly high, and seeing as he wasn't, he decided to go read a book instead.

Somehow, he found himself standing outside of Broussard's office.

~:~

"He's fading, James. He's too depressed."  
James lifted his head up from his hands.  
"And what am I supposed to do about that?"  
Cris and Andy exchanged looks across the living room.  
"He's suffering. Inside. Because of what you've done to him outside. He's like a flower planted in uneasy soil. He cannot grow. He can't live."

James slumped down in his chair and stared out of the window.  
"Has he even come out of the room any more today?"  
Cris and Andy exchanged another look.  
"Once. We were making sandwiches. He said he wanted to help, he had Torréon in his arms. He seemed like he got very excited, then he got quiet, then he got excited again, but then too excited - he cut himself, then started crying and threw up in the sink." Andy frowned thoughtfully. "He went to bed after that."

They were all silent for a minute. Cris rubbed his belly.  
"Do you really think he's going crazy?" James put his head back into his hands. "Maybe I am. Maybe it's me."  
Cris cooed and patted his shoulder.  
"I want to help him. But what can I do? I tried to give him more freedom, I got him the car. He didn't even seem to want it."  
Andy shifted in his seat, tucking one leg up underneath him.  
"Maybe you should take him home."  
"No, he hates that, he hates the base."  
Andy shook his head.  
"No, home. To the South. To Villa Guerrero."  
Cris nodded.  
"He misses his family. He misses his home."

James stared out of the window for a long time.  
"Take him to México. Give him some time." Cris urged. "I think there, he will recover."


	40. November 27

**Sunday**

Yavisk woke up pissed because Havar was not in the bed. He called his name - no answer. Yavisk got up, pulled on a pair of thick sweatpants from the chair next to the bed, and began to search the house. Bathrooms first, he tore each apart, checked Miljan's room, the closets, went up and down the halls. No Havar. Worry tested anger. He went downstairs.

He found him in the kitchen.

~:~

James tried to stay late in bed, but found it very difficult to sleep next to Ortega. His mate's breathing was even and heavy, but even in his sleep, his face was full of unease, little lines of a frown creasing his eyes and mouth. James pushed the heavy quilted blanket aside and slipped his feet into his favorite blue slippers to wander downstairs in.

Halfway to the door, he realized he was tiptoeing. He paused - what was the bother? Ortega slept, nowadays, like the dead. James looked at him for a moment, then silently made his way out.

Downstairs, Cris had made breakfast - cold eggs were still sitting in the pan on the stove, slabs of some kind of meat lay next to them, and bread was in a box being kept warm in the oven. James made himself a sandwich and padded down the hall, into the study. He sat down at the wide captain's table and began to peruse the papers he'd gotten.

Yesterday, at Cris and Andy's recommendation, James had spent a few hours searching high and low at all the local trading shops for a copy of the most recent southern newspapers. Now, he sat down to read them. He opened first to the classifieds, squinting at words which he knew, but hadn't used in years, and trying to make sense of the description of every house and estate. The sun stretched across the floor. After a while, Mabby, the pretty white house cat, came in and laid down in it. James kept reading.

After an hour, his eyes were exhausted, and he seemed to have gotten nothing done. He sat back in the chair, rubbing at them. He set the newspapers aside. Underneath them was a small, white envelope he'd acquired from the Centre. Ortega's grandparents' phone number was inside. He played with the corners of it.

~:~

"Are you sure about this, Joseph?"  
Joe nodded firmly.  
"Yes."  
"There won't be any going back or changing your mind after it's all said and done, you know. It's not like getting a cat."  
"I'll have you know I took _excellent_ care of that cat, but I understand what you mean."  
the Admiral studied his husband for another moment.  
"It's going to change our lives. You know that, right?"  
Joey looked up at him, took a deep breath, and slipped his hand into the Admiral's own.  
"I know. But I think it's going to be so wonderful."  
the Admiral smiled, squeezed his hand and smoothed the hair back from Joey's face.  
"I want so much for you to be happy."  
Joey leaned forward and kissed him.  
"Believe me, I will be."

The Admiral grinned at him.  
"I can't believe you talked me into doing this again. It's that damn handsome face of yours." he took a deep breath, then put a serious face on. "Well. We should talk logistics. When do you want this to happen?"  
"As soon as possible."  
"Any preferences of any kind?"  
"None whatsoever."  
"Do you want to follow due process, or do you want to look directly for a family?"  
Joey gazed at him happily.  
"Eric, honey, I really don't care. Whatever we have to do to get us a baby."

~:~

Sai jerked awake and took a second to figure out exactly where he was. Right. Chapel. The service was still going on. When had he dozed off? What woke him up? To his right, Suleiman was staring at him and frowning disapprovingly. He had a songbook rolled up in his left hand. So probably, that. Sai looked to the other side. Sloane was on his knees, whispering something under his breath - a prayer, most likely. He seemed absorbed in what he was doing; Sai watched him for a minute. He'd never seen Sloane look so devout.

He began looking around idly for something to entertain himself. The prayer was droning on. He counted the overhead lights. 22. Same as always. He began counting the panels on the walls. At panel 45, he noticed someone looking at him; Broussard was there, sitting on the far left side of the second-to-back row. Sai put his head down immediately and tried to look pious.

~:~

The silence between the ringing was killing him. Each blank pause seemed infinite, stretching out unendingly until the next tone. What if nobody answered? He tried to figure out what time it would be there, a few hours behind himself. Maybe they would both be in worship. Maybe they were working. Maybe -

"Hola?"  
he was seized with insecurity, fear. He stammered, couldn't talk for a minute, couldn't get his words straight, remember which language to use. The woman on the phone repeated herself.  
"Hola?"  
he pulled it together quickly, shifted the phone receiver to his right hand, let the cord curl over his lap.  
"Hola, señora. Mi nombre es James Irvine, y soy el nuevo marido de su nieto, Ortega Nq'taki Saloman de Garindes."

~

An hour later, Ortega minus Torréon (who had gone for a walk earlier with Andy and was now who-knows-where in the house), made his way downstairs to eat. He walked slowly, barefoot across worn, old carpets in the hallway, sliding his hand along the dark wood wainscoting.

Almost at the kitchen he paused. There were voices in the study. Somebody was speaking in Spanish. He wrinkled his nose. Bad Spanish. His stomach rumbled, but the sound intrigued him too much to be ignored.

Closer, he recognized the voice as belonging to James. He crept closer to the study. At the doorway, he stood up close to the wall, and just barely stuck his head around. James didn't see him at first; Mabby the housecat was prancing across the desk, busily rubbing her flank on his shirt. When he moved his head back, he bumped the door, which swayed and caught her notice. She hopped down off of the desk to investigate, and James turned to watch her go. Ortega tried to tiptoe away, but the door swayed again, revealing him. James went pale and stuttered his Spanish, then switched back to English.

"I'm sorry, I - I have to go, I'm sorry. We'll call you back later."  
He put down the phone. Ortega let Mabby curl around his legs and looked at James.  
"Who was that?"  
James opened his mouth, but didn't answer. He closed his mouth and frowned instead.  
Ortega tightened his mouth.  
"Who was it?"  
James turned the chair entirely to face Ortega.  
"Tega. Please, come, sit with me for a second. I want us to talk."  
Ortega began to worry. Adrenaline surged toward his heart.  
"Is it my family? Did something happen? Did somebody die??"  
James shook his head vigorously.  
"No, sweetheart. Nothing like that. Everyone, it seems, is OK but you. Please, Ortega, come here. We have a lot of things to talk about."

~:~

"Stop."  
Tiger craned his neck to reveal more of it to Miljan.  
"Sto-op."  
Miljan grunted and continued kissing a path down the side of Tiger's neck, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to bare more skin. Tiger closed his eyes blissfully for a minute, then opened them again and put a hand to Miljan's chest.  
"Stop."

Miljan gave one last nibble, then raised his head and tightened his arms around Tiger's waist, sliding his hands across the smooth skin of Tiger's back, underneath his shirt. They were in the large, leather desk chair in Miljan's study, with Miljan sitting in it proper and Tiger straddling his lap, knees spread to either side of Miljan's sizeable thighs.

"Say 'stop' again and I will." Miljan threatened.   
Tiger put one hand to the side of Miljan's jaw and turned it to place a quick kiss on his cheek.  
"I'm hungry."  
Miljan leered at him and slid his hands downward, into the pajama bottoms, to rest on Tiger's bare ass.  
"Me too."  
Tiger gave him a stern but annoyed look.  
"Stop. We always do this, and it never goes anywhere. I'm sick of being hard all the time."

Miljan's eyebrows nearly lifted off of his forehead, then his expression resettled into a mixture of lust and interest.  
"And where do you want it to go, mladunče?"  
Tiger's skin pinkened immediately.  
"Nowhere. Nothing." he blurted. Embarrassed, he tried to pull away from Miljan's grasp and unstraddle himself from his lap. It didn't work. "Dammit, kidnapper, let me up."  
Miljan just held tight around his waist and pulled him back into place.  
"No. Talk to your husband about this, Tiger. What do you want to happen between us now?"  
Tiger shrugged and looked resolutely at the wall.  
"I don't - I don't know. Nothing, I guess." he folded his arms across his chest.

Miljan nodded sympathetically and twirled one of the curls behind Tiger's ear with his finger.  
"Nothing like this."  
He used the same hand to hold Tiger's head as he swooped in to savour a kiss. They broke and Tiger's pupils resized themselves.  
"No, nothing like that."  
Miljan nodded and moved his hands up Tiger's back again, flexing his fingers into the muscle as he did so.  
"Nothing like this, either."  
he leaned forward, using just his teeth to pull aside the open collar of Tiger's shirt. Tiger shivered when Miljan nipped his collarbone.  
"N - no. Nothing like that either."  
"Mmm."

Miljan looked up at Tiger's eyes. His pupils were wide again, his eyes lidded, breath coming a little quicker in through his nose. Miljan marveled at his good luck for just a second. His mate was absolutely beautiful. Tiger bit the side of his own lip, gently, and Miljan almost came in his pants. He grunted, shifted Tiger in his lap, and moved on.  
"And I am sure, nothing like this."

In one fluid, sudden motion, he lifted his knees, forcing Tiger to raise his ass to compensate, and as his little mate did so, Miljan swept the pajama bottoms down to his thighs, leaving him completely exposed.  
"Mil!"  
Tiger tried to cover himself with his hands, but Miljan smacked them away.  
"Stop. I want to see."

Tiger shook his head, the shyness all back in a rush. Miljan sought out his eyes, tried to get him to turn his head back towards him. He ran his hands down Tiger's arms, admiring the sight.  
"You are beautiful to me, Tiger."  
Tiger shrugged, staring at the wall, clearly embarrassed once again.

"Listen to me, mladunče. When we are married and you are done," he leaned forward again, tightening his arms and closing the space between them, "We will make love, just like this, all over the place, all the time."  
Tiger's breath quickened again and his fingers flexed where his hands covered his cock.  
"I will have you in this study, in this chair, your neck thrown back and your legs spread open for me."

Tiger glanced at him out of the side of one eye, perhaps to judge the veracity of this promise, then looked away again. Miljan used his hands to lift Tiger's arms, then laid a kiss on either side of his ribs.

"I will have you on the desk." Tiger glanced at it, the big mahogany thing, and his muscles involuntarily flexed. "I will have you against that wall, that one, right there. I will have you there, little one, shivering and moaning for me."  
Tiger glanced at him for a little longer this time. His eyes were going black; his breath was almost panting.  
"Does that excite you, Tiger, little cub, mladunče, little handsome one?"

Tiger lifted his head a little, then suddenly looked at him straight-on, challenging. The hand which had mainly been shielding Tiger's cock was moved to make a fist around it instead, and he began to rub in long, easy strokes.  
"If that is what you've planned, Miljan, then I think there's something you should know."

Miljan gazed at him, buzzing with a haze of lust, only distantly interested. Tiger took his free hand, intertwined the fingers with Miljan's, and guided it to to his groin, to the underside of his cock and the tight, bulging place beneath it. Just past the lump of still-swollen flesh, Miljan's fingers slipped on something wet. Startled out of his haze of ardor, he snatched his hand away, then jerked Tiger's thighs apart and looked down to see what his fingers had touched. Leaning backwards, his hands supporting him on Miljan's knees, Tiger grinned smugly, his eyes still lidded, breath still half-panting.  
"I'm almost done changing."

~:~

"So what's wrong with you?"  
Sloane ignored him and picked at his meal. Clint chewed and watched him not eat.  
"What, did I do something wrong again?" he asked, with not a little bit of bitterness. "I piss you off today?"

Sloane sighed and shook his head, ultimately deciding that he probably could eat a carrot. He tried it. It tasted like cardboard, but he was so hungry, he ate it anyway. Clint watched him. Sloane tried to eat another carrot, but it tasted for some reason like fish and he spit it back out. Tears welled to his eyes. If he couldn't even eat a carrot, how was he supposed to have a child?

Then all the emotions came crashing down on him like a wave, and he started to utterly bawl. Clint, to his credit, looked horrified and completely guilty.  
"Jesus! Sloane! I'm sorry, I - stop crying! STOP CRYING!"

Clint's yelling just made Sloane cry more. Clint was bewildered. Around them, tables were beginning to stare. He did the only thing he knew.

"STOP FUCKING CRYING, SLOANE! What is the goddamn matter with you?!"

Sloane tried to suck breaths in unsuccessfully. It was a full-bodied cry he was in, the kind he hadn't had since he was 6 years old. It took his heart and his stomach and his lungs and his whole entire body with it when it heaved, bringing about the kind of sobs that made him feel like he was drowning. He tried to talk, but Clint apparently couldn't understand his words. People around them were starting to whisper. Clint looked around, embarrassed.

"Sloane! What is the matter?? What is the goddamn matter??"  
Worry was seeping through at the edges of Clint's feigned anger. Sloane bit his lip to calm himself and finally managed to pull in enough oxygen to cry-yell back at him.  
"I'm pregnant, you asshole! I'm **fucking** pregnant! _That_ is what is the goddamn matter!"

Clint had just enough time to think, 'What?', then 'Holy shit' before Sloane got up, took his sweater, and broke into a dead run out of the room.

~

Clint caught up to him in the hallway outside of his wing. Sloane was leaning against the wall by a corner, just trying to catch his breath. His sweater was wet on one corner where he had obviously been wiping his face. He looked up and saw Clint, and just melted pitifully against the wall. Clint decelerated a few feet from him and began to approach slowly.

"Sloane?"  
Sloane shook his head and just started crying again.  
"Leave me alone. Leave me alone leavemealoneleavemealone. Just leave me alone, _please_ just leave me alone."  
Sloane was wheezing and his face was turning bright red. His hands were shaking horribly.

Clint shook his head and held out one hand as he approached.  
"I can't do that right now, Sloane, OK? I can't leave you, baby."

Sloane started to sob again and curled against the wall. Clint got close enough to touch his hair, then his back, and he drew him into his arms. Sloane just whimpered and held on tight.  
"Shh. Hey. Shhh. I know, baby. I know."  
Clint smoothed down his hair, patting it somewhat into place. Sloane sagged to the floor and Clint went with him, cradling him in his lap.

"You f - fucked me and now I'm preg - pre - pregnant." Sloane sobbed. Clint nodded his head and held him.  
"I know." he kissed the top of Sloane's blonde hair. "I know."  
"And now I'm - I'm st - stuck here because what - what can I do with a baby??"  
Clint nodded and Sloane wailed, his emotions feeling raw all over again.  
"I can't - I thought - thought I would be able to - to get out. And now I'm stuck a - and I can't get out. I can't ever get out."

Sloane kept crying and Clint pulled him closer. Behind his back, he dug the key to Sloane's room out of his back pocket and held it in his hand, still just rocking Sloane on the floor.  
"I know. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." he shifted the weight of Sloane in his arms. "But come on. Let's go inside, alright? I can make you some sweet milk and you can lay down if we go inside."

Sloane shook his head at first, and fought and resisted when Clint tried to make him stand. But after a few tugs, he acquiesced, allowed Clint to lift him to his feet and half-help, half-carry him the rest of the way down the hall to his room, where he could cry at least with a little privacy. The least Sloane was owed, Clint decided, was a little bit of privacy.

 

Sloane had been agitated for another hour and a half, when he'd fallen asleep, and Clint had tiptoed out to order something to be dropped off for dinner. When he came back, Sloane was awake and red-eyed, staring blankly at some nothing on the wall. Clint sat down carefully beside him and stroked his back. Sloane didn't move, but he did close his eyes. They stayed that way for a few minutes - just the two of them, listening to the distant sound of footsteps in the hall.

"You used to be so nice to me." Sloane said, suddenly. Clint looked down at him; Sloane turned away. "But now you're not. No one's nice to me. Our kid isn't even going to be nice to me."  
Clint felt his stomach turn a little bit.  
"Of course he will. You're his mother."  
Sloane didn't answer. Another minute passed. He wiped his face on the pillow. He was still shaking.  
"You used to be so nice to me. Why'd you stop?"  
Clint hesitated.  
"I don't know."  
Sloane made a little noise of acceptance.  
"Do you love me?"  
"Yes."  
"I don't love you."  
Clint hesitated again.  
"I know."  
"I don't - I don't know if I can love a baby, either."  
"You can - "  
"I don't know if I can love something that comes from you."

There wasn't really anything to say after that one, so Clint just was silent and stroked his back, trying in vain to imagine a way that he could make the whole thing right.


	41. November 28

**Monday**

"So you - you talked to her."  
"Yes."  
"My grandmother."  
"Yes."  
"What did she say?"  
"We talked about Villa Guerrero, about my job, and about you."

James straightened his tie and checked his haircut in the mirror. Ortega stared into the toilet bowl for a minute longer, decided he was done being sick no matter what, wiped his mouth, flushed it, and staggered to his feet. Another wave of nausea overtook him, but it was mild enough to be ignored.

"Did she - was she mad?" Ortega asked, not looking up.  
James looked at him curiously.  
"I didn't tell her about the baby, if that's what you mean." Ortega heaved a huge sigh of relief and some of the nausea abated. James stepped back to give him room to get to his feet before adding, "I thought you might want to tell her yourself."  
The nausea returned; Ortega began oversalivating, and swallowed reflexively to try to stop it. James looked into the mirror and watched him.  
"I - I don't know what to say to her. Mama, she'll be - it's been - I think - I don't - it's too soon."

James blinked at him. Ortega was trembling a little, fussing with the damp sleeves of his pajamas. James turned his back on the mirror to face him, putting both hands on the counter, his fingertips dipping into little pools of water and toothpaste from where he'd splashed out of the sink.

"What are you afraid of, Ortega?"  
Ortega bit his lip and squeezed the cotton thread of the bathroom rug between his toes.  
"I don't want them to be mad at me."  
The answer was so simple that he felt silly for even saying it. But there it was. James's voice was resolute as ever, though his face belied some sympathy.  
"They're your family. They love you. They will be happy."

Tega fussed a bit more. Torréon toddled in happily between them and squatted down to pee on the rug. James stomped his foot and frowned disapprovingly at him, and the little furball jumped, startled, and made his way over to the square of puppy litter in the corner that was expressly for that purpose.

"What if they get mad at me?"  
James smiled, indulgently.  
"They won't."  
"What if they get mad at _you_?"  
"You let me deal with that."  
"We're not married, you know."  
"We can fix that."  
Ortega paused, chewing on the thumbnail of his left hand.  
"When I left, I was a virgin."  
James pulled Ortega into a gentle hug, careful not to crush him.  
"I know."

Ortega tucked his head into James' chest.  
"I don't know what to say to her. Will you tell them for me?"  
"Well," James ventured slowly, "I think it'd be better if you tell them yourself. Why don't you do it in person?"  
Tega's head jerked up.  
"What?"  
"Our train leaves tomorrow."  
Ortega jumped back, pushing James away.  
"But yesterday, you said - I thought - it was just a _possibility_ , right?"  
"I had my father's cousin put me through for a transfer last night."

Ortega's face screwed up while he contemplated this, then his eyes suddenly got immensely wide and a huge, beaming smile broke over his face. He grasped James by the lapels and shook him.  
"So we are really going to Mexico??"  
James laughed and moved his hands away.  
"Yes. Yes, we are."  
"When are we going, James?? When do we leave?" Ortega's smile showed no signs of fading, and he was practically hopping foot to foot, buzzing with a long-missing energy. "I have to pack! **You** have to pack! But what about your family? Your friends? Jalisco is home to me, but what about you?"

James heard the question, but found he couldn't answer for a minute, stunned to silence by his carrier's happy, beautiful reaction and the sudden lump he found in his throat. When he got his words back, his answer was both parsimonious and sincere.  
" _You_ are home to me, Ortega."

~:~

Suleiman was sleeping, Sloane was still AWOL, and Jesse and Ortega were both still out of town, so Sai had to make do with breakfast alone. He picked a bowl of oatmeal which always tasted too sweet, thanks to the Centre's "health chargers", a smallish-sized apple that everyone else had passed over, and a glass of berry juice.

Over the weekend, there had been new check-in centers installed between the food areas and the tables, and each was manned by one or two carriers whose responsibility it was to catalogue, by ID, the content and check-in weight of each meal that every carrier ate. In order to leave the tabled area and exit the dining room, each carrier had to have his tray re-weighed and his meal checked out. Sai found this to be both inconvenient and insulting, and a quick run through the rumor mill around the Centre uncovered the story behind it all. Apparently some carrier had been discovered in the week beforehand to have been starving himself to stay infertile, and this precaution, the Centre had stated, was meant to prevent any future carriers from inadvertently endangering their health.

The carrier at the check-in who registered Sai's meal pointed out that his breakfast was rather small, and also there wasn't much protein, kindly suggesting that perhaps he should go back and get some ham. Sai replied that he was sure he'd be fine, with or without the ham, and the carrier frowned and typed a small note into his breakfast registration page. After making faces at the screen for a moment, he looked up at Sai.

"Ok, it looks like you also have an orange flag on your account. Says something about a medical appointment you registered for, but then missed?"

Sai's stomach pitched for a second as he remembered. He tried to think of a lie.  
"Right. That was an accident. I hurt my wrist; I thought it was sprained, but it healed up in just a day, so it must've been a twist. It's fine now, you can delete that."  
The carrier pressed a few buttons.  
"Well, I can't delete it, but I will leave an appending note to let an officer know that this can be taken down."  
Sai rolled his eyes.  
"Thanks."  
The carrier typed for another minute.  
"But you really should think about eating better."  
Sai rolled his eyes and forged on into the dining hall.

 

In the tabled area, he was surprised to see Broussard sitting alone by a window. He tucked his tray into a comfortable position for carrying and headed over to him.

"Something change since we last talked? Turn out you're a carrier and you didn't tell me? What are you doing eating in here?"

Broussard looked up casually, slowly at Sai.  
"Well, well. Fancy the odds. No, nothing's changed, cher, much to your chagrin. I just needed my morning cup." Broussard actually scowled, which Sai immediately found sexy and then just as immediately cursed himself for thinking. Broussard stared hatefully down at the CEC mug in his hands. "Damned new food regulations took my coffee rights away. Until I get my clearance passed, I take all my meals in the caf, jus' like you." Broussard took another sip from the mug in his hands and scrutinized the cup. "This morning, I believe the blend is 'diesel'."

Sai knew he should have laughed, but he was too preoccupied with curious observation to validate the officer's sense of humor. Broussard was as cool as a cucumber; he sat relaxed in his seat, legs splayed comfortably, feet confidently flat on the ground. Sai sipped his juice, then cut a slice of butter with the dull knife and began mixing it into his oatmeal, still watching Broussard out of the corner of one eye.

"So..." Sai began, not quite sure how to proceed, having never been on this end of an investigation before, "...how is everything?"  
he finished, weakly.  
Broussard swallowed a full mouth of coffee roughly, and inclined his head.  
 "Work has been busy, although my recent assignment is quite nearly over. I thank you, again, for your help in settling that case and holding those men responsible."  
Broussard's drawl lingered over the word 'responsible' long enough to make Sai glance up, then back down quickly, inadvertently playing the coquette as he stirred his oatmeal with a spoon. "I was relieved to discover that you had little involvement in their operation."  
"I thought we weren't going to talk about that." Sai said, quickly.  
The atmosphere tensed. Broussard made a stern face, straightened up his shoulders, then cleared his throat and set his coffee cup down.  
"Of course not, Mr. Wyatt."

Sai felt irritated by Broussard's use of the formal title. Had they really gotten to 'Mr. Wyatt' so quickly? Broussard reached into the briefcase he had set beside his chair and found a piece of paper; he folded it and tucked it into an interior pocket of his suit jacket. Sai felt a need to explain himself.  
"It's just that - you know."  
Broussard shrugged.  
"I know. Gossip spreads fast dans cette monde. Wouldn't want to damage your fragile reputation."  
Sai narrowed his eyes.  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
Brourssard rolled his eyes and sighed.  
"Nothing, cher, nothing. Sorry to tease; I know you'a want to be somebody's respectable wife soon. Rumors hurt. I had no intention to be rude."

Sai sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.  
"Great. First things first: I don't want to be anybody's 'respectable wife', man. I'm over that scene."  
Broussard stared blankly at Sai.  
"What do you want to be, then?"  
Sai exhaled sharply in exasperation.  
"I don't know... _happy_? Fulfilled? Something. Somebody's equal, that's what. Nobody's kept carrier."  
Broussard studied him over the top of the slim, dark remains of his coffee.  
"You think a carrier with a good husband is not happy?"  
Sai shook his head.  
"I think nobody is happy to be someone else's pet."  
"Ah. And how long you been holdin' on to that idea, co-co?" Broussard swirled the remaining droplets around in a ring at the bottom of the cup. "Well, I tell you, cher, six more months and you'll swallow those words."

Sai was appalled by the implication, and Broussard's cynicism.  
"...What?"  
"You been here almost one year, yes?" Broussard asked rhetorically. "Seventeen months. That's how long they say it takes."  
Sai felt worry clouding his responses - worry and dread rose up. His throat felt dry.  
"How long what takes?"  
"How long it takes for a carrier to give up. No therapy, no rehabilitation, counseling, nothing. For some reason, come seventeen months, they all just...get tired. That's when they start to comply." Broussard tilted his cup towards Sai. "The normal ones, at least. But those are the only kind they let hang around for seventeen months to begin with. The bad ones go to the finger farm."

Sai thought he was going to be sick. Even thinking of the concept of Rowe House appalled him. To be locked away, in a room, sometimes drugged, sometimes not, with half a hand or half a leg or no eyes at all, in the dark forever, just waiting for your turn to come...Broussard's voice snapped him back to the present.

"Cher? I asked you. How long do you intend to do this?"  
"Do what?"  
"Keep on pretending that you're something else. Denying what you are."  
Sai wasn't sure if he was more angry or shocked to hear such a bleak assessment.  
"I'm not...denying."  
"Sure you are." Broussard leaned forward, not a little menacingly. "Gallivanting around, basement rooms, with damn fool men like Scott? Cher, if I hadn't showed up, you'da been in a heap of trouble, bigger'n you'd know what to do with." Broussard sat back. "A carrier who accepted what he was - who _valued himself_ \- wouldn't ever'a done that." Broussard scoffed and shook an annoyed finger at Sai from across the table. "And Sai Maka, you knew better. You'a smart little thing. You see that wall of guards you walked through to get in this room?" he indicated the neat line of check-in cashiers. "Well, this whole place is run that very same way. Nobody gets in - " he swung a hand around to point to the check-out lines. "- an' nobody gets out. Not without jumping through all the hoops first."  
Broussard looked away from their table, and his gaze raked over the bustling room.  
"No, cher. Nobody gets out."  
Sai felt that pit of despair that every carrier had inside him open up a little bit more at the truth in Broussard's statement. He shook his head.  
"That's not true. Jesse - "  
"Jesse went an' got married just like the most well-behaved of 'em, didn't he?" Sai frowned and Broussard laughed. "First one, in fact, of your petite brigade." Broussard leaned back self-satisfiedly. "See, mon ami? Even the best man crumbles."

Sai shook his head furiously.  
"No. It was _different_. Michael's not like that."  
Broussard chuckled and held his hands up in a shrug.  
"You say so, cher. We'll see if your friend's not back here, legs open and screamin' out his first babe in a year."  
Sai's expression got cold, and he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head.  
"What the hell do you even know about anything? What the hell do you even know about Jesse? I bet you've never even _met_ him."  
Broussard tightened his fingers around his empty coffee cup.  
"Don' need to. History of drama wi' that boy. And then a sudden marriage like that, big man like his daddy-in-law, last minute run-around, and a woman on the premises to boot. Who in these parts _don't_ know about it? About him?"

Sai stared angrily at his oatmeal for a minute. It was cold by now, all the taste gone.  
Broussard leaned in as if confiding a great secret.  
"You betta eat that, cher, or they won't let you leave."

What a mean, miserable thing to say, Sai thought. He tried to ignore Broussard. The pit opened wider. Broussard rubbed his hands together and stood up.  
"Me, I think I betta leave you to eat." here, Broussard looked uncharacteristically contrite, "I believe I've been company enough."  
Sai raised his head to look at the other man. Broussard looked sad, even a little regretful.  
"Wait." Sai put a hand on his arm, and Broussard paused obligingly. "That's not true, what you said. Jesse and Michael, they're in love. Michael doesn't treat him like that. They're equals, those two. They are."  
Broussard's face softened. He covered Sai's hand with his own.  
"If you say so, cher." he said, gently, then looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and was gone - as if the whole conversation had had no more weight than a question about the coolness of the breeze.

~:~

"Do you want to do breakfast, or should I?"  
Jesse cocked his head, running his fingers through Michael's short hair, mulling this over as they lay in bed.  
"Mmm. Well. Considering how hard I worked last night - "  
"Which I resoundingly appreciate, might I point out."  
"- I think it should be your turn."

Michael grinned, gave Jesse a quick kiss on the nose which made him wrinkle his face up, and jumped out of bed, bringing a gust of cold air in as the covers shifted.  
"Freezing!" Jesse cried, diving back under the down.  
" _You're_ complaining?! Think about me!" Michael had his arms squeezed tight across his chest as he ran in socked feet across the wooden floor towards the kitchen. "Ok, fire! Fire first, then breakfast!"

Teeth chattering, he began rushing about the kitchen, taking logs of firewood from the pile and stacking them with kindling, bumping into the table twice, which made Jesse giggle, yelping each time he ran across the freezing tile, and generally doing everything in his power to make Jesse amused.

Later on, after they'd eaten and put away the dishes for the next time, Jesse stood alone in the only warm place in the house (the bed excluded), savoring the hotness of an afternoon shower. Michael entered, slipping in behind him under the water to wrap his arms around Jesse's waist. Jesse leaned his head back against Michael's shoulder, savoring the new warmth. Michael kissed his neck and his hardness nudged between Jesse's thighs. Jesse tensed for a second, then relaxed. Michael pulled his head away.

"Jesse?"  
"Uh huh?" Jesse put one hand to Michael's head to guide his mouth back.  
"You alright?"  
Jesse nodded.  
"Yeah, I'm fine, why?"  
"I didn't...hurt you? Earlier? Did I?"  
Jesse scoffed.  
"Tasers hurt me. Steel toed boots hurt me. You don't hurt me."  
Michael tensed then, and pulled away.  
"You can always just tell me, you know, if you're not in the mood."  
Jesse paused for a second.  
"I'm always in the mood for you."  
Michael rolled his eyes, but leaned forward again, getting into their hug.  
"Seriously." he mumbled against Jesse's shoulder. "It's alright to tell me no."  
Jesse shrugged.  
"You're my husband; I'm not going to tell you no."

That hadn't been exactly what he'd meant to say. Rectify.  
"And also, I wouldn't ever want to, besides." It didn't work. Michael released him and stepped back. He put both hands on Jesse's shoulders and spun him, under the water, so that they were face to face.

"What was that?"  
Jesse was turning scarlet, he could feel it, but luckily under the hot spray of the water, both their faces were flushed red.  
"I will say no to you when I want to. I just haven't wanted to, yet."

That was half the truth. Which was not technically a lie. The entire truth was that he figured he would have plenty years ahead to figure out how to keep himself from getting fucked; there was no sense using up all the good excuses in just the first week. And besides, as Ortega had so kindly pointed out, not fucking was the first step to a relationship falling apart. Jesse really didn't want this relationship to fall apart. At least not now. Not yet. So for the time being, he hadn't wanted to say no to Michael. He was trying to be good.

Michael studied him for a long, worried, scrutinizing second. Jesse met his gaze, determined to appear unharmed and unafraid. Finally, what he saw must have satisfied him, because Michael turned him back around, kissed the back of his neck, and picked up the soap from the soap dish to begin soaping his hair. Jesse relaxed into it, the soothing massage sending him right back to the state where he was halfway ready to go to sleep.

Michael's soapy hand slipping between his buttocks brought him back to wakefulness. The other snaked around, tugged his cock for a second, then nudged it aside to plunge one finger into him. Jesse was damp by then, but the water from the shower felt like it was sucking the moisture away, and Michael had to work a little harder to get two fingers inside. Jesse winced and Michael nuzzled him, urging him forward to put his hands on the warm tile wall. Jesse spread his legs, standing wide open for him, and presenting himself like that, he always felt heated, alive, animalistic. Michael leaned back to admire him for a second, then plunged forward, his dick difficult from the water and him thrusting so roughly that Jesse cried out and tried to pull away. Fuck, it hurt like the first time all over again.

Michael soothed him and he tried to calm down. The rest of the time was easier.

By dinnertime, they were back to fighting again, because Michael had lost a single sock when Jesse had moved their clothes, and when he exhaled in annoyance and got down to look under the bed for it, Jesse took offense and reminded him that if he wanted that perfect little carrier wife who wouldn't ever lose a single fucking sock, then he should probably stop fucking Jesse so they could get an annulment now. Michael, surprisingly, did not take well to this comment, and had demanded to know why Jesse treated him like a criminal at all times.

"And how am I supposed to trust you? Why should I? Just because we're married? We don't even know each other that well!"  
"Fine! Fine! Know me! I'm Michael! I'm here! I'm here, I'm standing right next to you and I have been for a month now!"  
"A month is no time - "  
"I've been TRYING, Jesse Paik, I've been trying to get to know you, and you never let me! Is there any secret I've kept from you, ever, any at all?"  
Jesse sulked.  
"If I knew, then it wouldn't be a secret."  
"Have I ever lied to you? Violated you? Have I ever hurt you in any way that was within my control?"  
Jesse glared at him.  
"That's just because you haven't had time yet."

~

Now, they were standing silently across from each other, both angrily peeling potatoes from a pretty blue and yellow ceramic bowl. Jesse kept glancing up at him, but Michael was staring resolutely down.

"All I'm saying is - "  
"Don't. Don't do it, Jesse." Michael wagged the end of the short knife he was using at him. "Don't set us both up for another argument. We're not even finished the one we're in."  
Jesse shut his mouth, then resented doing so just because Michael had asked, and decided he would open it again.  
"I suppose we're back to giving orders, _Officer_ O'Connor." he snapped. There was a pause. "I don't feel sorry for you."

Michael dumped half the pile of potatoes into a separate, dark blue bowl and moved to the opposite end of the table as Jesse. Which, unfortunately, did not separate them much in the small kitchen space.  
"Well, I feel sorry for you, Jesse. Because it must be impossibly hard to live in that crazy space you call a head where you can't trust anyone but you, and not even you sometimes."  
Jesse reacted a little, just a little to that, pausing in his potato work for a second.  
"I'm crazy? Well, you're an asshole, asshole."  
He felt pretty good about adding the second 'asshole' for that extra oomph. Michael put the knife down in the bowl.

"Jesse. I didn't mean it like that."  
Jesse shook his head.  
"Whatever. I don't care."

That wasn't true, but him angrily scraping the skin off a potato made it seem like it was. The blue of the flowers on the bowl reminded him of his natori. Michael had obviously been inspired, and for some reason, he suddenly found that incredibly irritating. The flowers appeared to be mocking him, pointing out that even if he felt like he was winning with Michael, he would still be a damn carrier. He would still have to wear a damn natori, and he would still be born to lose.

"That's silly, Jesse. You obviously care, or else you wouldn't be here with me."  
Not missing a beat, Jesse muttered,  
"The only reason I'm here with you is because I'd be dead anywhere else."  
Michael stiffened up. Good. Hurt him. That felt better. Kind of.

Michael tried not to take the bait, he really tried, but the slicing became suddenly difficult, and he stabbed the knife into the potato.  
"What is - what is that supposed to mean?" Jesse shrugged at him smugly from across the table.  
"Fucking you is just paying my own ransom."  
Michael was silent for a long minute.  
"That's pretty hurtful, Jesse."

Jesse glanced up, but Michael wasn't looking at him and he didn't catch his expression and furthermore, didn't care.  
"It's hurtful that you're trying to change me."  
Michael exhaled.  
"I'm not trying to change you, Jesse, but I want you to be better. That's what love is, Jesse. That's what people who love each other do - they try to help each other be better people. They try to help each other to grow."  
Jesse was highly annoyed, indicating sharply with the knife.  
"So how come we only grow in your direction?"

Michael breathed in a calming breath.  
"OK, Jesse. Where would you like us to grow? How would you like us to change?"

Jesse shook his head. He was sick of this already. He felt sick to his stomach and he wanted to go lie down. Fuck Michael. Fuck Michael and fuck his house and fuck these potatoes and just fuck everything.

"I don't know. I don't care. I'm sick of this." he threw the peeler down in the bowl, along with the remaining population of potatoes, and shoved the whole thing, in one violent movement, towards Michael and off the table.  
The bowl shattered on the floor.

Michael stopped what he was doing. He put the short knife down and for a moment, rested his hands on either side of his own bowl, on the heavy granite table, his head hanging down to his chest. Then, he raised his head, looked directly at Jesse, and slapped him hard, straight across the face.

Jesse was so shocked he actually cried out, cradling his cheek in surprise and not a little pain. As soon as the stars cleared, he turned his head to look accusingly at Michael, who had gone back to the dark blue bowl of potatoes with his knife. Michael lifted his eyes to meet Jesse's own.  
"Well, Jesse, was that good enough? Is that what you wanted?"  
Jesse stared at him, uncomprehending.  
"Now you can tell everybody that you were right."

And with that, Michael threw the knife down and left the room; it clattered across the granite table onto the floor between the pieces of ceramic, and just as Jesse thought about leaning over to pick it up, Michael whisked back in, clad in coat, hat, and scarf, with boots half on and gloves in his hand. He looked at Jesse one more time, then shook his head and went out. He let the door slam behind him.

~:~

"Come one, come all! Everyone down to the dining room! It's dinnertime!"  
Yavisk was prancing through the hallways, banging on a pot.  
At the far end of the hall, his cousin's carrier, half-dressed, stuck his head out of the room then quickly retreated back in.  
"You! Come on! Down to the dining room!"  
Yavisk banged on the nearest door. A sleepy-eyed Bos opened it.  
"Šta?"  
"Dinner! Sád! Haj'mo!"  
Bos blinked at him.  
"Anton...sad je ponoć."  
Yavisk glowered at him, and Bos noticed that he looked a bit wild-eyed.  
"Didn't you know? Midnight is the only hour my Havar will eat."

The house began to rouse sufficiently, and Yavisk banged his way through the downstairs, startling Tiger and Miljan, who had made a habit of sitting together in the study. He went banging through the kitchen, by the guest rooms - even opening the front door and banging outside for a minute. Satisfied, he left the pot-banging to go back upstairs and drag out Havar, who had been the first to wake, and was now sitting terrified in the middle of their bed. He tensed up when Yavisk entered.

"Anton, please, I'm not hungry, nobody's hungry! What are you doing? Just stop this, Anton, please."  
Yavisk stopped, regarding him coolly for a second.  
"Oh. So I am 'Anton' now to you? I am 'Yavisk' no longer?"

Havar didn't know how to respond to that question, wasn't sure which answer would be the right one and which a fatal mistake. He made several silent prayers to Allah instead. Anton snorted and crossed his arms over his chest.

"If I am 'Anton', then come here to me. Come and kiss your husband."  
Havar didn't even blink, just obeyed him immediately, crawling across the bed to its edge, offering his face up. Fiercely, Yavisk grabbed him by his hair and dragged him to the ground.  
"How _fucking_ stupid do you think I really am?"

Havar was really terrified now, his heart pounding in his chest, breath heaving. He wanted to cry. He prayed again.  
"Get the fuck up, and get down to dinner."

Yavisk was the last to enter, still halfway dragging Havar by the fist in his hair. The house was all convened in the dining room, Miljan at the opposite head of the table and Tiger, looking frightened, seated by his side. Yavisk marched to the end of the table, taking his seat and dragging Havar into a kneeling position beside him. Everyone in the room tensed. Bos moved to get up, but Miljan stayed him with one hand. Yavisk stood to introduce the evening. The cousins sat on to his right, opposite the table from Tiger, with the Doctor between them. Bos sat on Tiger's other side, some strange cadet who Yavisk only barely recognized sitting rumpled and half-dressed beside him. Anton looked at the cadet.

"Who the fuck are you?"  
the cadet paled, then reddened a little bit, looking to Bos for an answer.  
"Um..."  
"He is a friend. Leave him alone."  
"This dinner is family only."  
"He is family. He's mine."

Bos' tone suddenly held a heavy warning. Yavisk inclined his head, lifting his wine glass in a toast. Miljan watched him coolly from the other end of the table.

"Oprostite, friend of Bos. Welcome to our home. I hope you enjoy the meal, and everything that is in store."

At his side, where he still had one hand wrapped painfully around the strands, Havar twisted on the floor to try and get away or at least relieve some of the pressure. He knew everyone was watching him, and he felt ashamed to realize he was crying.

"First on the menu tonight, everyone, we have a traditional potato dish, roasted and cooked softly with root vegetables in wine." Yavisk indicated a platter which sat in the center of the table. Havar pulled hard to get away, and Yavisk twisted his head in a particularly vicious yank. Havar whimpered, and swore, and for a second, he believed his neck was going to break. He held still.

"Afterwards, we have a fresh rack of lamb, roasted." he indicated a second platter, but nobody looked at the food. The cousin's carrier tugged on his husband's sleeve. The cousin quieted him with a look.  
"After that, a third course - a pasta in fish sauce!"  
Yavisk indicated another tray.  
"And then," Yavisk said dramatically, "For the fourth course, a beautiful performance by myself and my whore carrier Havar, on the table, for your pleasure!"  
Havar whimpered involuntarily and Yavisk leaned down to snap at him through gritted teeth.  
"You've done it before. You'll do it again."

Everyone around the table exchanged disturbed looks while Yavisk's head was turned. As a group, they looked down the table to Miljan. Tiger put a hand on Miljan's; his eyes were brimming with tears.  
"Make him stop." he mouthed.  
Miljan shook his head and raised a hand, stemming all comments.

Yavisk pulled Havar up to a standing state, and he went willingly, grateful to be off the ground, if nothing else. Yavisk released the hand in his hair and moved it to grip the back of his neck.  
"Sit. There. Eat." he shoved him towards a chair. Havar sat down, shaking violently. Yavisk turned a steely eye to the table.  
"Didn't you hear me, all of you? Eat!"  
Nobody moved.  
"Eat!"

Havar wasn't crying at this point, but when he tried to lift his fork, he found he was shaking too much for it to be of any use. Yavisk swore and snatched him by his hair again.  
"What's the matter, Havar? Can't eat unless your lover feeds it to you?"

Havar glanced up once, confused by what that might mean. Yavisk stared at him and his face turned to one of disgust.

"A change of plans, everybody! We'll have our performance before the meal."  
Yavisk pulled Havar up by his hair and drew him tightly against his chest.  
"But first - a confession! Of infidelity, committed by my darling whore of a carrier wife."  
Havar shook his head vigorously, still shaking.  
"I don't - I don't know what you're talking about."  
Yavisk laughed, a short bark.  
"You don't know? I've seen you with our Doctor. I've seen you look at each other. Meet for your secret meals in the kitchen."

Havar's eyes got wide as he realized. The Doctor was staring at him, face stony and pale.

"Tell everyone here at the table. Tell them all how he fucked you so good you had nothing left for me."  
Havar had no idea what to do.

"Anton." Miljan was still sitting in his calm, relaxed position at the opposite end of the table. Yavisk snapped his head up to look at him.  
"Da, prijatelj?"  
"That's enough, don't you think? Demen is our doctor. He would not disrespect you."  
Yavisk coughed out a laugh again and twisted Havar's head backwards. Havar yelped.  
"You say that, brother, but I've seen them do it. I've seen them sneaking off. I've seen this - this fucking whore -" here, he punctuated his anger by shaking Havar's head back and forth. "- meet him in the kitchens. But you say there is no disrespect."

"Let go of him, you son of a bitch!"  
It was Tiger. Ruefully, Miljan realized that the poor kid just couldn't help himself. He put a hand on Tiger's arm to stop him, but Tiger shook it off and pressed on.

"Leave Havar alone!"  
Yavisk turned an ugly look on him.  
"Miljan..."  
"Tiger, be silent."  
"He's - "  
"Tiger! What a man does with his wife is of no concern to you."  
Tiger looked at Miljan, his expression confused and hurt, but Miljan was busy watching Yavisk.

"Brother, if there is a problem, come with me, and we can discuss it alone, in private."  
Yavisk shook his head and began backing away from the table, taking a whimpering Havar with him.  
"No. This is my only problem. This. Him. I'm going to kill him."

Yavisk said it almost conversationally, knocking over the chair as he began to drag Havar away, and he got him just over to the rug that lay in the open space in front of the fire place behind them before he threw him down there, onto the ground. Havar tried to get up.

"Stay down!"  
He didn't move. The first kick caught him completely off-guard. The second hurt like hell. The third caught him in the side of the chest. The fourth on his head. He couldn't process what was going on and he was too scared to open his eyes, but there was yelling around him and then the kicking blessedly ceased and if he'd had his eyes open, he would have realized that it was because on the second kick, the table had rushed en masse to restrain Yavisk, and on the fourth kick, the Doctor had taken an iron from the fireplace and hit Anton in the back with it.

The group was strong, but there was confusion and Tiger was screaming and trying to get into the fray and the little gray housecat was darting between legs to get out of the room and the cousin's carrier was trying to hold his husband back from getting involved. Yavisk turned on the Doctor, his face like an enraged animal, and lunged for his throat. The Doctor raised his iron to strike again, this time aiming where he knew it would kill, planning to go for the head, the throat, the sensitive parts exposed, seeing before his eyes only images of himself, slaughtering Yavisk, and Havar, lying hurt on the floor. Nothing else was clear, nothing could connect.

Then there was a horrible, deafening, cracking sound.  
Miljan stood calmly at one end of the table.  
Yavisk lay dead at the other.

All movement in the room ceased. The only sound was the sound of Havar still keening, whining on the floor. The Doctor moved first. He dropped the fire iron and ran over to kneel by Havar's side, beginning his doctorly ministrations. The rest of the room stared at Miljan, who stood firmly where he was and laid his revolver on the table.

"Get out."  
Nobody moved. Miljan sighed.  
"The first man who speaks of this dies. Bos, I want you to go and bring the car around. Murphy will have to go with you. He can't be out of your sight."  
Bos nodded sharply, took the cadet by the hand, and ran out of the room to go and find the car.

"Drag, take your wife and put him upstairs. Ami, you go with your husband and be good. Lock the door. Then Ivan, you and Drag go and clear the safehouses; put enough things for a week into the white room."

Miljan felt a sudden shiver wash over him. His brother was dead. He waited for Drag and Ivan to begin to leave.

"Demen." the Doctor looked up. "In your room, under the third slat beneath your bed, there is a box. In that box there are sixty-four thousand dollars. Take that. Take him. Go to India."  
"Miljan - "  
"This is my fault. I should never have allowed him to come here. And I never should have asked you to stay. Go. Under the fourth slat, there are two guns. Under the fifth is an easily broken vial of acid, so be careful in your counting."  
"What?"  
"Take the money. Take Havar. Take him to India, and don't bring him back."  
"Miljan - "  
"Use this opportunity which I am giving you, Demen. Set him free, and yourself as well. You've both just been liberated. Go."

The Doctor swallowed and nodded, then turned back to his patient.

"You know the way?" Miljan asked. The Doctor nodded, lifting Havar into his arms to carry out.  
"I know the way."  
Miljan nodded and watched them go.

"Now, Tiger, I want - "  
he looked to his left. Then his right. Panicked, he looked up and around the room.  
Tiger was gone.

Miljan shoved past Demen and Havar and skidded into the hallway. An icy air whisked in through the hallway. Yavisk had left the door open when he'd gone pot-banging. And now Bos had opened the gate. The full realization of what had just happened hit him in the gut.  
Anton was dead, and Tiger was gone.  
Miljan was all alone.


	42. November 29

**Tuesday**

Tiger laid on his back in the hospital bed and idly turned the small black box he held in his hand - Miljan's communication device. The one with the map in it. He'd noticed that the first time he'd seen the thing, when it had woken him up at four in the morning one night. Miljan had taken it away from him, made some small explanation about what it was and how it worked. But Tiger had seen the map, there outlined in black and yellow-white. And there, in the middle of the lines so easily recognizable as a map, had been a little blinking green dot, which Tiger suspected was the device itself. A helpful little thing. So when he'd run, he'd taken it. He'd dashed upstairs, taken a painkiller jab, the hormone shot the Doctor had told him he'd need, and the small black box. Then he'd run for home, chasing the little green light all the way.

Tiger squeezed the little box tight in his hand, exhaled, and set it down on the bed. His stomach hurt. Maybe he should eat something. He didn't want to eat anything. He tried to think about Miljan, but found it difficult; a fuzzy curtain seemed to exist between his awareness of now and his memory of the house. His father had told him to try to remember details, about the house, about the other men who had kidnapped him - names, faces, clothing, mentions of job or position, anything that might help his father find them all. He had a journal, a red one that his father had brought, expressly for the purpose of writing down things that he remembered.

Tiger didn't touch it. So far, he'd told them he still felt confused. Traumatized. Frightened. It had taken him six and a half hours to make his way home. The woods were the worst part - there, alone, in the dark with who-knows-what lurking, Tiger had felt more damn vulnerable than he ever had in Miljan's bed. The relief he'd felt upon approaching his own driveway, upon seeing the old blue truck that so distinctly belonged to Vincent DuCourt, was indescribable. Tiger had bawled in the living room, clinging tight to his dad whose eyes were still red with sleep, not bothering to stem his tears or wipe his face. The argument about whether he needed to go to the infirmary was brief. Tiger won.

In the on-base medical center, he had stood in the middle of the entryway floor with his father's jacket on his shoulders and the scent of Miljan's pillow still in his hair. He didn't want to talk.

The early morning nurse had allowed his silence, stated that he was probably in shock, and recommended he try to sleep. They took him into a room. His father wanted to stay; Tiger asked if he could have an adjoining room because as much as he loved his dad, he just wanted a little time to be alone, to feel unwatched for a change. The nurse sent them both one floor up and told Tiger that someone would come to examine him in a few hours, then possibly move him to the CEC.

The nurse gave him a cursory once-over and offered him something for the pain. Still feeling numb from the running, the walk along the road, the excitement of escape, and the sheer relief of being back home (sort of) again, Tiger realized that he didn't actually feel any pain. He demurred the pills and was offered something to help him sleep instead; he refused, but alone in his room, sleep came fitfully. After almost two weeks in Miljan's bed, the hospital felt cold and small. The blankets weren't thick enough. Tiger turned on his side.

A new nurse, a handsome young carrier in scrubs with blond hair tightly pulled into a ponytail, came later that morning to take his vitals and make him eat lunch. He'd chatted conversationally to Tiger as he'd gone about his routine, looking up at him expectantly when Tiger was quiet or too slow to answer.

"So how old are you?"  
"Seventeen."  
"And you're an only child?"  
Tiger nodded, disinterested with the conversation. The nurse urged him onto his back, spreading his legs and laying a blanket over his bent knees.  
"I'm going to touch you now, Tiger, OK? I know this feels weird, but just try to relax."

Tiger didn't respond, just exhaled and laid still. The nurse probed him for a minute, asking about where and which parts still hurt. After a moment, he sat back.

"Tiger, I think your change is pretty well advanced by this point. I'm going to try to put a finger inside of you. If at any point, anything I am doing becomes painful or even very uncomfortable, I want you to tell me immediately, OK?"  
Tiger nodded.  
"Tiger, I need a verbal response from you on this. OK?"  
"Yes."

The nurse returned to his position between Tiger's legs. He lubricated one finger and slipped it, gently inside of him. Tiger tensed at the coldness of the lube.

"Tiger, try to stay calm for me, OK?"

Tiger narrowed his eyes but focused on relaxing. The nurse moved his finger a little, turning it inside of Tiger and pressing against his walls, then retreated.  
"Did that hurt you, Tiger?"  
Tiger shrugged.  
"It felt weird. And tight. But it wasn't - it wasn't like pain."

The nurse's face flickered with some unreadable emotion, then became neutral again.

"How long ago did you begin the change?"  
Tiger shrugged again.  
"Week and a half, maybe. Two Thursdays ago or something."  
The nurse nodded.  
"Well, that's plenty of time. You're pretty well advanced."  
Tiger looked up at him.  
"I'm done?"  
"Well, not done yet - not all the way. But you're in working condition."

Tiger chewed on this bit of news for a moment and swallowed. The nurse watched him process this information and smiled.  
"Don't worry. You'll be a beautiful carrier."

Tiger's brow furrowed. In his hand, he idly fingered the communicator. He wondered if Miljan would come back for it. The nurse was writing in a chart.

"Of course, we'll have to get the doctor to confirm that your change is completed."  
Tiger bit his lip.  
"When will the doctor come?"  
"Probably in the afternoon. Things have been pretty crazy around here today, so I doubt he'll be free until then. Would you like some magazines to read or anything?"  
Tiger shook his head.

"Well, after he comes in and verifies, then we'll get you registered as a carrier, and you'll be moved to the CEC, enrolled in a bloc, and assigned a homeroom and some living quarters there."

Tiger swallowed and looked out of the window. The nurse scribbled some more notes and copied numbers into his file.  
"So is there anything else you want me to know, Tiger?"

Tiger glanced up, then back down and shook his head.  
The nurse continued to write in his chart.

"Would you like to speak to a counselor while you're here? Someone to talk you through the transition?"  
Tiger shook his head.  
"OK. Are you sexually active, Tiger?"  
Tiger hesitated, but shook his head. The nurse looked at him.  
"You're sure?"  
Tiger's face heated, and he nodded.  
"And do you plan to be?"

Tiger frowned, a little taken aback at the forward nature of the question. The nurse half-smiled apologetically at him.  
"What I mean is - are you promised to anyone, Tiger?"

The question was asked casually, innocuously, but there was something about it, some demanding note to the nurse's voice that made Tiger balk immediately. He looked up at the nurse, then glanced towards the door.

"Where's my dad?"  
The nurse smiled soothingly.  
"Your dad is sleeping. We'll wake him up before the doctor comes to examine you in the afternoon."  
Tiger shook his head.  
"I think - can you wake him up now, please?"  
The nurse tsked at him.  
"He's very tired, Tiger."  
Tiger felt his heartbeat spike.  
"I - I want to see him. He's my dad and I want to see him now."

The nurse looked evenly at him.  
"Why don't I see if I can find you something to help calm you down?"  
Tiger shook his head vigorously, panic rising to the surface.  
"No, I'm calm, I'm fine. I just want to see my dad."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to go find his father himself. The nurse appeared in front of him, one hand on the bed on either side of his hips.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Tiger. You're still healing. I think you should stay in bed."  
Tiger felt high on adrenaline. Something wasn't right.  
"Well then, can you please go get him for me? I want to see my dad!"  
The nurse looked at him sympathetically.  
"Tiger. I think you need something to help you relax."  
Tiger shook his head and got back into the bed.  
"I - I don't. I'm fine."  
The nurse eyed him for a minute, then turned and left the room.

Tiger jumped out of bed immediately. The floor was freezing against his bare feet. He looked around for the clothes he'd changed out of last night, but they were gone. He ran to the far side of the room, to push aside the curtain which led to the adjoining room; his father would hear him if he knocked.

"Tiger, don't do that."

Tiger snapped his head around. The nurse was there, in the doorway, accompanied by a tall, muscular officer in the dark blue scrubs that distinguished officers from carriers in the medical ward. Tiger stared at them for a moment, then banged on the door anyway.

"Dad! Dad! Da -"

The officer nurse covered his mouth with one hand, lifting him and carrying him to the bed. Tiger fought, kicking and biting, but it didn't seem to have an effect and in seconds, he found himself face down on his back with his hands pinned behind him and his ankles strapped to the bed. His breath was coming in pants, and he felt like fighting, screaming, and crying, all at once.

"Let go of me. Let go of me. Please, let go of me!"

The pressure on his ankles was released, and he was flipped onto his back and strapped in again. The two nurses looked down at him. Tiger tried to memorize their faces so that he could identify them later. He took in two deep breaths and tried to breathe evenly.  
"I want my dad."  
The carrier nurse ignored this statement.  
"Tiger, this is my brother, Lukas."  
Tiger flicked his eyes over to the nurse in blue scrubs, who was smiling at him. The carrier nurse turned to Lukas.  
"Luke, this is Tiger. He's going to be registered as a carrier today, and he's wondering if there are any officers around base who might be interested in meeting him."

Tiger shook his head. Dread was welling up in him.  
"Leave me alone!"  
"Tiger, Lukas is a commissioned medical intern here in this ward. He'll be completing his training this summer, and will start making rounds on his own next year. He's been looking for that special someone to augment his new position; a fiancée to complement this next phase of his life."  
"I want my dad!"  
"It's very nice to meet you, Tiger." Lukas smiled down at him, and reached out with one hand to gently trace a finger along one of his curls.  
"I want my dad or I'm going to start screaming!"  
"Tiger," the carrier nurse said calmly, "If you scream, then we're going to have to sedate you."

~:~

Miljan sat stone-faced in the morgue room of the base hospital and reflected on his life. Dead brother, missing carrier, abetting of a runaway, and difficult questions demanding answers from his job. Not a good place to begin a day. But Miljan was a man like his father, and beginning in a bad place never worried him. Things could always change.

The autopsy was taking forever, but his commanders had demanded it, and Miljan had demanded he be present for it. It was difficult, watching them cut apart so casually the man whose hand he had held to cross the street when they were small, but Miljan did it because it was a thing which had to be done. If there was another way in which Miljan was like his father, it was this - he did, always and without complaint, the unpleasant things of life which yet had to be done.

Miljan had no true commander, but the closest it came was General Ebert Wilkinson, a man who was stern under normal conditions but downright pissed off now, and kept casting Miljan an irritated sideways glance in the autopsy room.

"I hope you don't think this will just be glossed over like last time, Cubrovic."

Miljan rolled his eyes. Every time, this song and dance. They had to go through it, even though they both knew it meant nothing.

"General, I apologize."  
"For which part? The kidnapping? Or the in-house gunfight? Or aiding the kidnapping of a carrier, as well as abetting criminal behavior in allowing Demen to escape with said damn carrier in the first place?"

Miljan sighed.  
"The situation was unavoidable."  
"The boy's father wants blood." Miljan was silent. The general pressed, "He's not a man whose demands are ignored."  
Miljan shrugged.  
"Neither am I."

A moment passed between them. The doctor was making notations about the condition of Anton's body, the pooling of blood. Miljan posed his question carefully, casually.

"Has he spoken yet? The boy?"  
Wilkinson snorted.  
"He was brought in this morning, a little before 7 am. Doesn't want to see a counselor. Hasn't given up any names."

Miljan didn't respond to this, but inwardly he felt a wash of delight at what might be Tiger's display of loyalty. Wilkinson snorted.

"If you still want him, it's going to be hell to pass. DuCourt is an angry man with a lot of friends. Between that and this business with your brother...and I won't tell you it'll be easy to make the Havar thing disappear, either. The carrier's a damn national story and you let him go and get kidnapped like that." The general shook his head. "I really don't understand you, Cubrovic. I don't."

Miljan shrugged again.  
"My brother had lost control of his faculties in the recent months. The situation quickly escalated to become intractable. I acted to protect my own life, and the life of the four carriers whom were present at the time of the problem."  
Wilkinson snorted.  
"Uh-huh."  
Miljan felt a stab of violent anger at the man's dismissal.  
"It was not a decision I made lightly, General, to kill my own brother. But there was no other way."

The reality of what had happened hit him. His grandfather would have to be informed. Problems would arise in his family; anger, suspicion, distrust. Nobody died easily, not amongst them, and especially not at the hand of their own.  
Wilkinson glanced sideways at him again.  
"Point taken, Cubrovic."  
A pause, extended.  
"And what about the carriers? Where are they?"  
Miljan didn't miss a beat.  
"The carrier Ami is with his husband, at home. I cannot disclose the location of Cadet Murphy to you - "  
"The second carrier's an officer?"  
" _Was_ an officer."  
"He hid his change?"

Miljan shook his head. The doctor was cutting open Anton's gut. Miljan remembered the meal, the food spilling everywhere, the table upset and Tiger crying.

"He has not completed. He began a few days ago. When he completes, I will give you his location, as well as the name of his husband."  
Wilkinson shook his head.  
"I don't know how you people do it. You, your brother, your cousins. You pick 'em before they even show signs. It's insanity. How do you know which ones to choose?"  
Miljan smiled a little.  
"We are simply skilled in the art of human observation."

The general regarded him out of the side of his eye.  
"And what about the carrier Havar? How are you going to explain letting a damn national symbol go missing?"  
Miljan's jaw tightened.  
"I was attending to the emergency care of my brother at the time the escape happened, and was not able to babysit the carrier. The gentleman doctor took advantage of the situation and my negligence."  
The general was quiet for a minute, chewing on something in the back of his jaw.  
"I know you, Cubrovic. You are never negligent."

Their eyes met. Miljan stared evenly back at him. The general turned away to watch the doctor make notes about the autopsy in a small black book.  
"And what about the last one? The boy, Tiger?"  
"What about him?"  
"What do you plan to tell his father?"  
"I'm going to tell him I want my carrier back."

~

They finished the autopsy and left the room; afterwards, Miljan felt ill; sorry and disconnected, not himself. For a brief, awful moment, he considered going to speak to his brother about everything that had happened. Then he remembered that his brother was dead. Miljan rubbed his eyes. His vision felt foggy. A presence moved in the room; somebody was behind him.

"You look like hell, Cubrovic."  
Miljan turned to face the general.  
"Thank you, sir."  
"Go home. Get some rest. You've been up all night, haven't you?"  
Miljan rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. Twelve-thirty.  
"I have work to do, General."

Wilkinson tilted his head, eyeing him like a bird.  
"Go upstairs. Ask for a bed. Get some sleep. The last thing I need is my best recon team down. I don't want to see you up and moving around this base until 7 this evening. That is an order. Have I made myself clear, Special Officer Cubrovic?"  
Miljan inclined his head in recognition.  
"Absolutely, sir."

~:~

Jesse paced around his room, picking up one thing or the other, then setting it down again. He had no idea where to even begin. He looked over at the other bed, now empty and made up with clean sheets, tucked and folded with military precision. Vichy had gone so smoothly and quickly, it was sometimes as if he'd never even been there at all. Being in this room now, Jesse felt very alone.

Michael hadn't spoken to him for most of the train ride. He'd still bought the tickets, helped carry Jesse's bags inside, offered him something from the meal car, but he hadn't spoken to him, not really.

Jesse had been too afraid to call Soria. After Michael had mentioned that she was under surveillance, he'd been too frightened to go anywhere near her, not wanting to attract her any more attention. He looked down at his bed and thought about getting into it. A mid-day nap could be a nice thing, and it had been a while since he'd had one. His cheek still stung where Michael had hit him, though he was sure it was purely guilt-pain. He'd been mulling over their argument since Michael had left. His husband had disappeared, stormed out into the frigid night, and hadn't resurfaced until almost 0300. Jesse had meant to stay up and wait for him, but he'd dozed off a little after midnight, and only woke again when he heard Michael's voice in the kitchen, explaining in low tones to someone on the phone how he was very sorry, but Mom's old ceramic bowl had been pretty badly broken. After that, Michael had come into the bedroom and undressed without speaking, showered, then gotten into bed.

Jesse had wanted, more than anything, to reach over and put his arms around Michael's waist, to touch the skin that he knew would be hot and moist from the water, to lay his hands on the other body who shared his bed and know that there was at least one other person in the world who he could trust. But in the end, pride and fear had kept him from it, and he hadn't moved to touch Michael, to apologize, to kiss him, to do anything. Instead, he laid still and pretended to sleep.

 

A knock brought Jesse to the surface of his own mind.  
"Yeah?"  
The door cracked open. Sloane stuck his head through the slit and glanced around nervously.  
"Can I come in?"  
Jesse arched one eyebrow. Sloane had quit asking Jesse for permission to do anything months back.  
"Sure. Come in."

Sloane entered and looked around for a place to sit. Both chairs were covered with clothes; he then spied Vichy's bed, but hesitated - it looked too clean, too neat and perfectly made. He glanced at Jesse's bed, but just as quickly rejected that suggestion. He looked back at Vichy's bed.

"You can sit on mine."  
Sloane looked at him, his eyes pitifully sad and hopeful. Jesse indicated it with a jerk of his head.  
"Go ahead. It's fine."  
Sloane settled in on the edge of the bed and looked up at Jesse.  
"I'm pregnant."  
Jesse raised both eyebrows.  
"Oh."  
Sloane looked away.  
"I, um - it was hard, to find out, and Clint thought that maybe if I told people, then it could be - I would feel better..."  
Sloane trailed off, picking at the pattern on the duvet.  
"I see."

Sloane looked up at him with a look that was suddenly harsh and scrutinizing.  
"How was the honeymoon?"  
Jesse rubbed his cheek.  
"Fantastic."  
Sloane nodded, preoccupied with his own problems.  
"Good. Good."

Sloane had a seashell bracelet on his left wrist, another gift from Clint, and he started to twist it idly with one hand. Jesse began moving things from his dresser into a cardboard box.

"I'm, um - I don't really know why this is so hard for me, I mean...I work with you guys all day, and I - it's not like I didn't know this was coming, I just - " Sloane stopped suddenly, then said almost-bitterly, "You don't care, do you?"  
Jesse wasn't even sure at first if Sloane was speaking to Jesse or himself, so he kept his mouth shut. Sloane looked up and met his eyes. Jesse paused.  
"I care."  
Sloane shrugged casually, but his shoulders were shaking.  
"It's OK. You don't have to. Nobody has to. I'll be fine by myself. I'm always by myself."  
Jesse furrowed his brow. This didn't sound good.  
"Are you OK?"  
Sloane nodded, but tears were leaking down his face.  
"I'm fine."  
Jesse stared at him.  
"Is there someone I should call, or...?"

Sloane suddenly burst into tears and amongst the sobbing, Jesse was able to pick out that there was no one to call, no one. Not ever, and not now. Jesse sat down next to him on the bed and held him for a minute, disturbed but unsure what to do.

"Do you want me to go find Clint?"  
Sloane shook his head furiously.  
"No, please! Please don't call Clint, Jesse, don't call him here. I'm - I'm not like you."  
Jesse tilted his head.  
"What does that mean?"

Sloane sniffled and tried to wipe his face with his sleeves.  
"I mean - I'm not like you: my fiancé doesn't love me."  
Jesse felt a fresh little stab of guilt.  
"I'm sure Clint does love you, in his own way."

That seemed like a lie. But if it made Sloane feel better, so be it. Sloane wasn't buying it; he shook his head miserably.  
"Nobody loves me."

It was said with such resignation that it broke Jesse's heart. Sloane looked back up at him again.  
"You're so lucky, Jesse. Really, you are." Jesse frowned. Sloane wiped his face with one sleeve. "You just have no idea."

~:~

Sai ducked out on lunch with Suleiman and Ortega, and went instead to go sit at the same small table as yesterday, to drink half a glass of soda and play with his napkin while he waited for Broussard to appear. The man did not disappoint. He entered smoothly around half past noon, carrying a tray with a plate of food and two apples, glancing around the room before settling his gaze on Sai. Sai straightened up a little, but not too much; he didn't want to look eager. Broussard crossed the room smoothly and took up the seat across from the carrier.

"Good afternoon, cher."  
Sai's mouth quirked into a smile.  
"Afternoon."  
"Second apple's for you."

Sai looked back up at Broussard, but the man was disinterestedly chewing on his baked fish and looking around the room. Sai took the apple and bit into it. It was sweet, so sweet that Sai momentarily wondered if it was a CEC Special Edition apple, complete with carrier 'health chargers' injected. But then again, it didn't matter. The apple was a gesture - Sai took another bite.

Broussard looked with some concern over the empty plate of the carrier in front of him.  
"Where's your lunch, coco?"  
Sai played with his soda.  
"Not hungry."  
Broussard raised one eyebrow.  
"Well, I suggest you pretend. Gon' get youself red-flagged if you don' eat."  
Sai shrugged.

Broussard raised one eyebrow and pushed his plate towards Sai and offered his fork.  
"Here. You take a few bites, I'll tell the little man at the counter that you ate mine."  
Sai hesitated, but the fish actually did look good, now that it had been offered. He took the fork from Broussard.

"So what'll you find yourself to do today, petit?"  
Sai chewed a bite of fish and shrugged, then poked at a potato.  
"Maybe read. Classes are cancelled 'cuz Sloane's in dire need of some personal leave. Might see a movie. It's pretty boring around here, honestly, especially with half my group gone, so I dunno, I'll do anything that entertains me."

There was a pause. Broussard spoke, his voice low.  
"Anything that entertains you, eh? Is that how you met your friend Scotty? Entertaining you'self?"  
Sai tensed and became flustered.  
"No. No, I wasn't - I told you already about that. _Fuck_." his expression darkened and he looked away. "Thought we let that go."  
Broussard shrugged.  
"Jus' makin sure I warned you off it good."

Sai, irritated, went back to sipping his soda. Broussard reached over and took a bite of his own food, then nudged Sai's hand gently with his own.  
"I'm sorry. Go on, cher."  
Sai looked up at him, then away as he rolled the glass between his hands.  
"Well, other than that...Jesse's back, but he hasn't come out of his room, and Tega's back and he's sweet, but also kind of crazy, so I've been steering clear of both of them."

Sai exhaled and pushed Broussard's plate away, leaning back in his chair and tucking some of his smooth black hair back into the ponytail it had escaped.  
"I'm just sick of sitting all the time in the same place, doing the same things. I need to do something different. Something fun. I'd like to get _fucked up_ , honestly - that's what I really want to do."  
Sai looked defiantly at Broussard; he'd just been harshly chastised about his affinity for illicit substances, and wasn't sure how the other man would react, but _fuck that_. Honest was honest.. But instead of anger, Broussard laughed, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement.  
"Well, seeing as we are....friends now, I suppose such a small, _legal_ ," Broussard put special emphasis on this word, "indiscretion as that may be a possibility which I can arrange. Ask me again tomorrow, Sai Maka, and I will see what I can find."

Sai grinned. This whole weird relationship he'd developed with Broussard was shaping up pretty nicely. It sure did help to have a man on the inside.

~:~

Ortega had wandered in some time after Sloane had finished crying in Jesse's arms, and now the three of them were sitting in various stages of repose around Jesse's room, a cluster of four cardboard boxes sitting filled in the middle of the floor.

"I did not know I had so much bullshit."  
Sloane roused himself enough to reply.  
"I've been telling you that for months."  
Jesse cast an irritated glare at him.  
"It's our first day as friends, Sloane. Don't push it."

Sloane shut up and sat quietly in the chair, with Torréon nestled snugly in his lap.  
"You know we have to do my room next." Ortega pointed out.  
Jesse looked over at him.  
"Today? Why? I thought you weren't getting married until next month."  
Ortega beamed.  
"Plans have changed." Jesse cocked his head and Sloane sat up straight to listen.  
"We're moving."

Sloane looked surprised.  
"Moving? Where?"  
Ortega's smile got even wider.  
"Home. To the South. To México." Tega sat forward in his seat, practically bouncing on the edge of it. "Jesse, I'm going home. I get to go home!"  
Jesse grinned, caught up in Tega's infectious happiness.  
"Congratulations, Tega. I couldn't be happier for you."

Tega beamed again.  
"The baby can be born in the mountains, and my mama and grandfather can see him, and he can play in the courtyard where I did, and everything will be wonderful!" Ortega looked up at Jesse slyly. "And by then maybe he will have some other baby friends to play with?" he asked hopefully. Jesse laughed, but it was a brittle laugh.  
"Not yet, I don't think so."  
"Not even after your honeymoon?!" Ortega sounded incredulous.  
"We were very careful." Most of the time.

Ortega wrinkled his nose, then narrowed his eyes.  
"Did you have a fight?"

Jesse glanced quickly at Sloane, who was looking at him curiously, then back at Ortega.  
"A small one."  
Ortega sighed.  
" _Jesse_."  
"I know, I know. I apologized."  
"Really?"  
Jesse thought about it.  
"No. I think I forgot."  
Ortega rolled his eyes.

"Well, what happened?"  
Jesse made a dismissive hand gesture.  
"He got mad. I got mad. I broke a bowl and threw a knife. The bowl was his mother's."  
Ortega sucked in air through his teeth.  
"Jesse!"  
"I know."

Sloane was looking at him with an expression so perplexed it was almost comical. Ortega crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.  
"Did he hit you?"  
Without pause, Jesse answered:  
"Michael doesn't do that."  
Ortega shrugged.  
"He will one day, if you keep acting the way you do."

Jesse glanced over his shoulder at him, a little disturbed by how plainly Ortega believed that to be true. Sloane was nodding.  
"They'll all do it, Jesse. You just haven't pushed the right button yet."

Jesse suddenly remembered why he hated this place and was glad to leave.

Ortega put his hands on his hips.  
"Did he at least make you wear a natori?"  
Jesse reflected.  
"No."

Michael had not, in fact, made any attempt at punishment or retribution whatsoever. He'd just gone on with life, not speaking but not ignoring Jesse either. He'd created a space where they interacted only in ways that were absolutely necessary. Jesse found it miserable.

"I mean, I'm going to apologize when I see him."  
"When will that be?" Sloane asked. Jesse thought.  
"I'm not really sure."  
There was a meaningful pause in the room.  
"Later tonight, probably. I think. Or sometime."  
He furrowed his brow and Tega exhaled in exasperation.  
"Don't tell me we're packing for nothing."  
Jesse cut a glare at him.  
"It's just one fight. I'm a newlywed. Fights are normal. It'll be fine."  
Sloane looked doubtfully up at him.  
"I don't know, Jesse. You have a knack for the irregular."

Jesse cut another glare at Sloane, then turned to Ortega.  
"So guess what? Sloane's pregnant."  
Sloane's eyes widened and Ortega spun around to face him.  
"Whaaat? Since when??"

Sloane turned funny shades of red and white and stared at the dog in his lap.  
"I don't know if I really - "  
"Oh, no, come on! Tell us! It can't have been long!"

Sloane looked away, towards the door, as if thinking of escape.  
"It's not that great, I think - "  
"Noo! Tell us! Congratulations! We're happy for you. I bet Clint is thrilled, huh? How long?"  
"Ortega - "  
"Will you be due in the summer, like me, or in the fall?"

Sloane looked up at Ortega, and his eyes were heavy and mournful.  
"I'm seven weeks. Maybe eight."  
"Hey! Same as me! So we'll be due at the same time..."

Ortega trailed off as Sloane continued to stare at him, some distant realization become clear. Sloane looked away, at the wall, then back up to Ortega. Ortega cocked his head.

"We got pregnant at the same time."  
Sloane didn't disagree, but he did look back away from Ortega's gaze.  
"I think - Clint, um, I think it was in the car, on your night with James."

Ortega's stomach did somersaults at the dredging up of that memory. Sloane's eyes were tearing up again, his breath becoming ragged. Jesse appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, just watching.

Sloane went on.  
"I - I think that it's a punishment."  
Ortega didn't respond.  
"I think I did the wrong thing." Tears were coming now, but nobody moved to comfort him. "I - I think I messed up. I was, um, I was scared but that - that's really no excuse and then I - " Sloane scrubbed viciously at his eyes with the back of one hand. The other hand trembled, hovering just above the fur of the little black and white dog. Sloane looked up at Ortega.  
"I'm sorry, Tega. I really didn't want to do that to you. I'm so, so, so sorry. Please."

Jesse didn't move, just watched the scene play out. Ortega frowned, then his expression dropped and his face hardened. He stood up and fear flashed briefly across Sloane's face. Tega moved closer to him, his chest heaving. He leaned down to look him in the face.

"Hey." he said. "Hey. It's OK."

Sloane's eyes got big, hopeful and wet with emotion. He looked like a man at an oasis, a prisoner seeing sunlight. He looked like he believed Ortega might save his life. "It's OK." Ortega repeated. "We only do what we have to do. But I forgive you - it's OK."

~:~

Miljan was so close to sleep that when he first heard the voice, he thought he'd been dreaming. He opened his eyes. He was still in the hospital, curled up underneath a pitiful blanket on a too-small bed. He waited, listening, but heard nothing. Then the voice came again.

"No, please, please, stop it, leave me alone. **Leave me alone!** _I want my dad!!!_ "

Tiger.

Miljan was on his feet instantaneously, not even bothering to put on his boots as he tore down the hallway in the direction of the sound. He skidded to a stop in front of the nurses' station, and a short, plump middle-aged carrier in green scrubs looked him over.

"Can I help you - "  
But Miljan heard Tiger's voice again, had detected the direction.  
"Security issue, carrier." He flashed his SO identification. "But thank you for your concern." and then he was off, down a connecting hallway.

The door was locked, but that had never stopped him before. He reached into his pocket for a passcard, popped it open, and threw the door in.

~:~

Downstairs, Staff Sergeant Vincent DuCourt was sitting in the Carrier Counselor's office and rubbing his head. He glanced at his watch. The man was droning on about the benefits of enrolling in the program, how happy Tiger would be, how the rules would help him in his psychological development, and how much he was going to enjoy the program. DuCourt scoffed. As if he'd had any other choice.

He'd tried to convince his son not to report, not to go in and admit what had happened to him, but Tiger insisted that there was no other way. He needed medical attention, he needed medicine, he need to face what had happened because they both knew that he wasn't going to be able to hide it forever. Vincent had felt such a weird mix - a surge of pride in Tiger's ability to handle a situation that, at his age, was unimaginably awful, a bit of anger at the program, the military, God and the world in general for allowing this all to happen, and a little bit of miserable fear because this was not the life he wanted, for Tiger or for anyone.

The carrier counselor was on to logistics now, talking about what DuCourt could expect out of the program and what the first day's schedule would be. Vincent glanced at his watch again and decided he'd had just about enough. He had a meeting with the hospital director at two, and before he went, he wanted to check in on Tiger, who he was sure would be missing him like mad right about now. He'd left him sleeping peacefully this morning, and knowing Tiger's energy, he was probably awake by now. It was almost one o'clock.

~:~

Tiger had thought he'd known relief before, but the smash of emotion he felt upon seeing his ex-kidnapper standing there in the doorway, head up and eyes angry, dwarfed it completely. The carrier nurse and his brother both snapped their heads up, eyes belying both surprise and fear. Miljan didn't even speak, just kicked closed the door and began moving towards the larger one - the dark blue scrubs, who still had his hand knotted in Tiger's hair. The man backed away, but not fast enough, because Miljan moved fast and before he even fully understood what was going on, the man was against the wall, his wrists behind his head, being disarmed. Miljan dropped his standard-issue handgun and kicked it across the floor, into the corner farthest from all of them.

"'Yan!" Tiger wriggled and tried to lift his head, but it was difficult with the restraints still on him. "Yan, don't worry about them! Help me! Get me out of this!"

"Who the fuck are you??" The carrier nurse was already reaching for his radio, calling for backup from security. "Nobody's allowed in this wing. You're not supposed to be in here!"

Miljan paused, still holding the officer in place, looked evenly at the carrier nurse, and wrenched one of the officer's arms upward at a painful-looking angle. The man groaned, and the carrier nurse shut up immediately. Miljan smiled kindly at him.

"I am authorized to enter all sections of this hospital, and this base. Now give me the radio, sweetheart."

Miljan's accent was thick on the words. The carrier backed away, and the officer nurse tried to jerk away towards the door while Miljan was distracted. Miljan caught his other wrist and twisted it until he groaned about that as well.

"Miljan!" Tiger couldn't get see what was happening, but he knew it wasn't good.  
"Were you running away, officer? Going to leave your friend?"  
"Miljan, stop it!" Tiger wasn't very convincing. Miljan decided to ignore him for the time being.

He focused instead on the carrier nurse, who looked terrified, standing in the middle of the room, unsure about whether he should go for help in the hallway or go into the fight himself. Miljan reflected that it was a brilliant practice on the part of the CEC to make their carriers record their strength losses. Even now, he could see the man judging, calculating whether he could still take on Miljan, whether he'd been able to before and whether he thought he could now. It took him just a few moments to make his decision; he began to tense for a lunge. Miljan shook his head.

"Don't do it, baby. I break both his arms then. Put the radio down and come over here."

The officer tried to move his wrist and Miljan moved them both into one hand, then with the other, grasped the man's hair and slammed his face forward into the wall. The man yelped and the carrier nurse cried out.

"OK! OK! Stop it! Please! What do you want? Who are you?!"  
Miljan smiled a half-smile at the carrier.  
"I am Tiger's husband, my sweet child. Didn't he tell you?"

The carrier tensed and his hand flexed on the radio. Miljan rolled his eyes. This was how it was with some people - always wanting to be a hero.

"Put the radio down, little carrier. I won't tell you again."

He slammed the man's head into the wall again and heard a tiny crack as the man cried out and tried to move his wrists again. The carrier still hesitated. Then it made sense; the man was signaling to the carrier. Minute signals meant familiar ones. Lovers would have no use for Tiger; brothers, then. There was enough resemblance between them. Miljan was surprised he hadn't realized it before. He spun the officer around, one hand still in his hair, so that he faced the carrier. He released that hand, wrenched the one holding his wrists upwards again for good measure, extracted his pocketknife and held it flush against the man's throat. This, Tiger could see.

"Miljan! No! Ne! Prestati! That is not a nice thing to do!"  
The carrier nurse was absolutely still, his eyes darting between watching his brother and watching Miljan.  
"Look at him, your little carrier. Your brother, isn't he? Pretty thing. Is he promised to someone? Is he promised like my Tiger is promised to me?"

The man swallowed, testing the closeness of the blade. Miljan pressed it in until it drew blood. The carrier's eyes got wide.  
"Please - please leave him alone. I'm sorry about Tiger, I didn't - I didn't know he was yours. I'm sorry."

Miljan ignored this and spoke directly to the officer, who was gritting his teeth against the burning sensation at his neck.

" _He_ could be mine, you know. Your little brother. The baby boy." Miljan continued casually, as if they'd been having this conversation in a bar, and not in a hospital room with a knife to one man's throat. "If I take him. If I cut your throat and fuck him against that wall over there while you bleed out."

The carrier's whole body tensed up and he looked fearfully to his brother for instruction, but Miljan could tell he wanted to move now, wanted to run. Miljan wondered if they were still signaling each other.  
"And to think you were going to run from me and leave him. For what? To go find help? Did you really think that help would get here fast enough to save your brother if you left him with me?"

The carrier's gaze flicked down to the officer. His breathing changed and Miljan could tell he was on the verge of panicking.  
"Do you think he's the type that cries while you fuck him, or do you think he'll be strong about it?"  
Neither man answered. Miljan went on.  
"He'd probably cry for you. For your cut throat. Even though you were going to run away and leave him. But, see - that's what brothers do. They _love_ each other. They _care for each other_ , no matter the betrayal. They forgive the cut throat."  
The knife pressed in farther.  
"Except when they don't."

Miljan's voice went a little funny at the end of the last sentence, and Tiger began to sense an escalation of emotion in the room. The carrier's eyes had full, fat tears preparing to roll down his cheeks at any minute.

"Miljan." Tiger was trying different tactics now, keeping his voice calm and steady. "My husband. Stop. I'm OK. That's enough."

Miljan glanced down at him once, then back up to the carrier, who was shaking. Rage or fear, Miljan wondered. Probably both. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Miljan removed the knife and shoved the officer violently forward. He tripped into his brother, then ended up facing Miljan, with his brother half-hidden behind him. Miljan jerked his neck to indicate the door.

"Go. Now. Both of you. Tell no one that I am here. If you do, I'll come back for you, beautiful."  
Miljan used his knife to indicate the carrier.  
"Get out."

They both took off immediately, and Tiger exhaled in relief. Before they even got through the door, Miljan was already at the foot of the bed, freeing Tiger's feet. He did his wrists next and Tiger sat up immediately and threw his arms around Miljan's neck, squeezing tight. His words were sort of muffled against the thick military jacket, but Miljan understood them anyway.

"You're crazy, did you know that? You are so goddamn fucking crazy, but I have to say I'm very happy that you're here."

Miljan hugged him back, held him tight against his own chest, smelling his hair, his skin, the scent of nights in his bed.

"Tiger. Tiger, Tiger, mladunce, my love, my little cub." Miljan exhaled and pulled away, held the boy at arms' length, his large hands heavy on Tiger's shoulders. "Why did you leave me, Tiger? Why did you run?"  
Tiger looked at the man in front of him, his face miserable with worry and awful pain and for a moment, he had no answer.  
"Because, Miljan, I had to."

Miljan looked crushed. His eyes flicked to the ground, to the window, to Tiger's eyes, to the door. Tiger pulled him back into a hug, and Miljan went, but unwillingly, recalcitrant in his arms. Tiger spoke against his jacket again.  
"It was the right thing to do then, but it wouldn't be the right thing to do now."  
Miljan frowned.  
"I missed you. And you - I think you were right, before, when you said my life wouldn't be better...I don't want to stay here; I don't want to live in the CEC and go to classes and do dumb stuff and just sit around waiting until somebody who's not you comes along and decides to pick me. I'm not an animal. I'm not a dog in a shelter, and you don't, well most of the time anyway, you don't treat me that way. And I won't - I mean, I like living with you. I like being your wife. I don't want to go somewhere else, I don't want to live with somebody else, and I think I can figure out that whatever else is out there, it's not for me. I think you are. I think you...found me for a reason. And with you, I feel like I'm at home. And that's all I want. I just want to go be at home with you."

Miljan felt something pricking at the backs of his eyes, but he decided that it surely must be residual pain from his headache and so he resolutely ignored it.

"OK. OK, little one. I will talk to your father, and maybe you can - "  
"No."  
Miljan pulled back, surprised.  
"No?"  
"No."  
Tiger wriggled out of his grasp, got down from the bed to stand in front of him.  
"Lock the door."

Miljan frowned a little, but complied, unsure about what was going on. When he turned back, Tiger was sitting back up on the bed, his legs spread. He looked up hopefully at Miljan. Comprehension dawned immediately.

"Tiger - "  
"Please just do it quick."  
"You're not - "  
"I am! I'm done. I'm finished. The nurse, he checked me out, he said I was fine this morning. I just have to wait for the doctor to come and verify that I'm fine."  
Miljan looked skeptical.  
"I don't want to hurt you."  
Tiger shook his head, pleading.  
"You won't. You won't, I promise. But if you do this now, and you do this quick, then we still have a chance to make things right. Please. I don't know when my dad is coming back, and I don't know when the doctor's coming, or where the nurse is. So we really only have right now to do this."

Miljan hesitated.  
"For your first, I don't think - "  
"We can redo it later. We can redo it tomorrow, or the day after, or everyday after that if you want, but please, please, Miljan, will you come fuck me now?"

Miljan, like his father before him, was not a man who needed to be asked that kind of question twice. He came to the bed, settling between Tiger's spread knees, and unbuckled his belt. He kissed Tiger and batted his hands away when he tried to get Miljan's pants off of him.

"I'll do it."  
Miljan dropped them and ran his hands up the sides of Tiger's thighs.  
"Nothing under here?"  
Tiger shook his head frantically.  
"They didn't give me anything."

Miljan grunted and pushed the hospital sheath up to Tiger's stomach. Tiger tensed and flushed at the exposure, but then Miljan dropped down to his knees and enveloped his cock in such a wonderful warm wetness that he forgot to be embarrassed. Tiger hardened in record time, his cock swelling to full hardness under Miljan's ministrations. Delightful as it was, Tiger had to stop him. He tapped Miljan's shoulder.  
"Time...time. We don't have time."

~

That was the one damn thing about walking around this part of base, Staff Sgt. DuCourt reflected. You couldn't move two feet in one direction without some underling stopping you with some kind of stupid question. Just between the carrier counselor's office and entrance to the hospital, he'd been accosted three times, each of the questions long-winded, pointless, and ultimately answerable by a simple fact-check or a few moments of critical thinking.

He glanced at his watch again. One-fifteen. If he didn't hurry, by the time he got there, Tiger would already be awake. He quickened his pace as he entered the hospital.

~

Miljan released Tiger with a slick pop from his mouth and stood up. He grinned and kissed his little mate hungrily. Tiger allowed it for a second, then reached forward for Miljan's cock, which was already hard with anticipation. He grasped it with less awkwardness than Miljan expected, a fact which he filed away for later consideration.

"Miljan, please. In me. Now."

Miljan nodded, and put both hands on Tiger's hips to pull him forward to the edge of the bed. He tested the waters first, pressing one finger into Tiger's hole. Tiger flinched a little and Miljan drew back, looking at him suspiciously. Tiger rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine! Go! Please!"  
Miljan paused, unsure. Tiger exhaled and leaned forward to kiss him.  
"Volim te."  
Miljan grinned.  
"Volim te, Tigar."  
Miljan urged Tiger closer, lined his cock up, and thrust fully in.

It was better than heaven. Better than Christmas, better than victory, better than his best day at war, better than coming home, better than anything he had ever heard of, seen, touched, or tasted. Tiger was perfect. Miljan groaned, and rested his head on Tiger's shoulder. It lifted and fell in an uneven rhythm. Miljan leaned his head back. Tiger had his eyes closed, was clenching tight to Miljan's shoulders, his fingers spastically tightening into the skin. He was biting his lip. Miljan's stomach dropped a little. He nuzzled Tiger's jaw, laying a kiss there.

"Tiger. Tiger. Are you OK, little one?"  
Tiger nodded sharply.  
"Yes. Yes. I'm fine. I'm fine, it just - you, um, caught me by surprise there."  
Miljan kissed his cheek and nuzzled his face again.  
"I know. Žao mi je. I wanted the pain to be quick. A virginity does not yield itself so easily."  
Tiger nodded.  
"Can you just, um, can you stay here for a second, just be still?"

Miljan nodded. The urge to thrust was powerful, roaring in the back of his mind, but he was a man and he could control himself. He waited. He could be patient. Tiger's fingers slowly began to ease their grip on his arms. The tension began to ease out of his body. Then a bang on the door scared the fuck out of both of them.

~

Vincent DuCourt was, above all things, not a stupid man. So he'd specifically asked this morning that there be special security around Tiger's room. The nurse, a pretty blonde carrier, said that he understood completely how a father might feel, and that he would personally see that all was well. A lock on the door, however, most certainly did not constitute special security. DuCourt made quiet notation in his head of the young nurse's name. He knocked again.

"Tiger! Tiger! Open the door."  
Tiger looked up into Miljan's eyes.  
"Finish! Finish now!" he hissed.  
Miljan made a comical face of disdain.  
"It doesn't work like that!" he hissed back.

Tiger lifted his legs and tightened them around Miljan's back, pulling him in deeper.  
"Miljan, if you want me, you have to go. Now!"  
Miljan gave himself a mental pep talk and went, thrusting slickly in and out of Tiger's glorious wetness. He groaned.

"Tiger?!"  
The voice at the door became inquisitive, urgent. Miljan tuned it out and focused on the sensation, burying his face in Tiger's neck to get his scent. Tiger shouted over his shoulder.  
"Just a minute, Dad!"

Miljan moved his hands down to Tiger's ass to pull him closer and Tiger yelped once at the depth of the thrust.  
"Tiger? You OK in there, kiddo?"  
Tiger bit the back of his fist.  
"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. I was just - just give me a second here!"

Miljan could feel his peak approaching, zooming in from the horizon.  
"Finish finish finish please finish please just finish please - "  
"Tiger." Miljan growled.

"Is there someone else in there?!"  
"No, Dad! I'll - I'll be out in a second!"  
"The hell you will."

The next sound was not a knock, but a bang, and it was close to the edge of the door. Vincent DuCourt was going to kick the door in. Miljan had a brief image of being dragged hard and slick out of Tiger, and his peak retreated. He blocked it out and kept thrusting, imagining Tiger in his bed, in his arms in the chair in the study, chasing him around the gardens behind the house -

"Where the fuck is my passcard?! Nurse! Call security! I want officers, I want armed backup! Illegal entry to the carrier ward, assault may be in progress!"  
"DAD! Just hold on, hold on a second, I'm going to - "  
"Fuck that, I'm going to - "  
"Tiger, I'm going to - "

To Tiger, it felt like everything happened at once. The door came flying open, his dad came bursting in, Miljan came hard inside of him, and what seemed like the entire medical staff of the second floor came chasing down the hallway after them. Then everyone - his father, the blonde nurse, and the doctor included - came skidding to a halt just inside the room. Tiger blinked wildly at them all. Miljan twitched and groaned, then casually straightened up. Tiger flinched a little, but still held on to him. Miljan shivered for a second, then pulled out of him and turned to face the stunned crowd, pulling his pants up from where they'd pooled around his knees. He zipped himself up.

"Hello, everyone." he drawled. "Kako si?"  
Sgt. DuCourt lunged for his throat.

~:~

He left the cafeteria and turned down the hallway which led to his office. The light was on inside. He paused, wondering who it might be. Slowly, Broussard opened the door. Scotty was sitting in the chair at his desk. He closed the door quickly behind himself.

"Thought I tol' you not to come here, Scotty."  
Scott grinned.  
"Come on. Nobody saw me. I just stopped by to see how everything was going."

Broussard relaxed and took up a seat opposite the man, leaning against his own desk.  
"If you must know, quite well."  
"He swallow the whole bit?"  
Broussard picked up a stack of papers, rifled through them distractedly.  
"Hook, line, and sinker."  
Scotty laughed.  
"And what's next?"

"Well," Broussard raised an eyebrow, "The poor damn thing wants to get drunk."  
Scotty stared at him, open-jawed.  
"Like shootin' fish in a leaky barrel. I didn't even know they _came_ that easy."  
Broussard glared at him.  
"It ain't like that."  
Scotty stared disbelievingly at the inspector.  
"You already fucked him. Don't tell me it 'ain't like that'." Thinking this over, Scott pulled a curious face. "So why didn't you just keep him then, anyway? When you had him at your command?"  
Broussard looked with annoyance at the young man and slapped his hand away from a box of pens he'd begun playing with.  
"Because trading charges for sex is a crime, Scotty. I get me a wife and no damn job, what good does that do me?"  
"They'd forgive you if you said you had to feed your family."  
Broussard rolled his eyes.  
"My reputation is very important to me." He slapped the stack of papers down just in front of Scotty's fingertips. "I'd advise you to keep that in mind."

Scott's expression cooled noticeably.  
"I just came here for my finder's fee."  
"Your finder's fee is that you're not in jail right now."  
"I want to see you shred the docs."  
Broussard stared at Scotty.  
"Why, son." he intoned, his voice even but threatening. "Are you saying you don't trust me?"  
Scott held up his hands and shook his head.  
"No offense intended. I just like to be thorough. So shred my docs. I don't want anything fishy going on after you get what you want."  
Broussard stared at him for a moment longer before he acquiesced.  
"Fine. But believe me, boy. If'n I don't get what I want," he opened a file and began running papers through the little machine. "There will be hell for you to pay."


	43. November 30

**November 30: Wednesday**

"Hey, Sloane. Hey. Hey, baby, wake up."

Sloane jerked awake, blinking desperately to try to make out the face in the darkness of his bedroom. Clint smiled at him. Sloane rolled onto his side and tried to sit up.

"I - am I at home? I fell asleep."  
Clint reached out a hand to stroke his hair.  
"Yeah, I know you did, babe. At Tega's place. I brought you here."   
Sloane exhaled and laid back down, staring up at the ceiling.  
"Is Tega gone?"

Clint shook his head, and Sloane noticed he was dressed in his uniform, twisting his hat in his hands. It must be morning, then - he must have an early shift. He hoped he hadn't missed Ortega - he'd wanted very badly to see him before he left.

"No. He leaves in an hour. That's why I thought I'd wake you up."

Clint seemed anxious, Sloane thought, but didn't dwell on the thought. They'd both been pretty anxious lately. They'd had a lot to think about. Sloane's eyes had adjusted to the low light now; he recognized the hour as predawn. Clint was staring at him intently, squeezing his hat a little in his hands.

"How do you feel?"  
Sloane twitched his lip.  
"I feel fine."  
"Not sick?"  
Sloane shook his head.  
"I'm OK."  
Clint seemed relieved.  
"They said you pretty much passed out at Tega's. The rest of your boys stayed up packing all night."

Sloane tried to think back. He remembered closing up a box, then people talking, then the overwhelming urge to take a nap, and then...waking up here.

"I was just sleepy."  
Clint glanced suspiciously at him before turning his attention back to his hat. He shook it out and spun it on one finger.  
"Well, do you want to get up? I can walk you over to see Ortega before I go."

Sloane stared at the ceiling and tried to get his bearings on the day.  
"You have an early patrol?"  
Clint moved one hand over the blanket to rest on Sloane's thigh.  
"Yes. I'll be home early, though. Is that OK?"  
Sloane swallowed and rolled over to get out of bed, slipping free of Clint's touch.  
"That's fine."

There seemed to be some important silence; some tension between them which Sloane didn't understand. He got up and went into the bathroom. He was still wearing his clothes from last night. Clint hadn't undressed him. He brushed his teeth and ran a brush across his hair, the bright light in the bathroom blinding him. When he came back out, Clint was still sitting in the shadows with his hat in his hands; Sloane shut off the light and blinked his eyes, but they had adjusted to the brightness. Clint was a silhouette once again. Sloane stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at him.

"I want you to quit your job."  
Sloane's stomach dropped and his heartbeat surged, but then he calmed himself. He'd known this was coming. He'd expected it. It was unavoidable. He nodded his head.  
"OK."  
Clint was silent, as if he had something more to say.  
"Because I'm also going to quit mine."

This part was unexpected. This part was new.  
"I reported your pregnancy to base yesterday. They offered me a new position." Sloane stood still in the doorway, waiting for the conclusion. "I don't think I'm going to take it. I'm going to ask them, instead, for something else."

Clint looked up at him, trying to meet his eyes. In the darkness, he couldn't find them.  
"I think a change would do our family good, Sloane." he said, and although Clint would never know it, Sloane's heart leapt miles into the air upon hearing that phrase uttered so casually, so certainly...our family. Us. He belonged somewhere again.

Clint had gone back to spinning his hat; he was working his jaw and Sloane wanted to warn him that he would pop it out of line, but he just kept quiet and stood where he was instead.  
"I think we should go somewhere new."  
Sloane wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer this; he didn't.  
"I've been talking to James about Jalisco, about the South where he and Ortega are gonna live."  
Sloane furrowed his brow.  
"He thinks it'll be a better sense of community, down there, in those small towns - a better quality of life. He says things will be slower, safer - good for Ortega and good for him. He's going to take a position less an hour from the house; there are opportunities for local patrol, administration, regulation. These towns, after all, need to be rebuilt."

Sloane had been still this entire time; now he moved to put a hand on his belly, a calming gesture he'd picked up from Ortega and begun to do for himself. Clint lifted his head again; his silhouette was looking at Sloane.

"James asked me if we wanted to come with them."  
Sloane felt breathless, frightened.  
"And what did you say?"  
Clint hesitated.  
"I told him yes."

Sloane felt all the air rush out of his body. How could Clint do this? To make such a major decision, to take him away from his town and his job and his home and his Center, the only family he had...Sloane started to cry. Clint's shoulders drooped visibly; he got up and rushed over to him.

"Sloane, sweetheart, baby. Please don't cry. I'm sorry, babe, I'm trying. Please, Sloane, help me - I'm trying. I only thought it would be a nice thing for us, for the baby. I only thought it would be a nice thing for you."  
Sloane choked on a few sobs, but pretty quickly pulled himself together.  
"I - I just - Clint, why? Why didn't you ask me? Why didn't you care?"  
Clint was close to him now, so close that even in the darkness, Sloane could make out his eyes. They were hopeful eyes, young eyes, scared eyes, sad eyes.  
"Sloane, I _did_ care. I do care! I care so much, I just - I thought that if we go to Jalisco, then things can be better. You can spend more time on your own. You can be friends with Ortega and have a little job, maybe, sometimes, in the town. You can go outside whenever you feel like it. You can have a little freedom there, Sloane. I thought your freedom was the best gift I could possibly give you."

Sloane half-smiled a sad little smile, then stepped back from Clint, putting his hands on his fiancé's shoulders.

"Clint," Sloane managed, his voice calmer than he thought it would be, "You can't make a gift of something which wasn't rightfully yours."  
Clint frowned.  
"Babe - "  
Sloane looked at him sadly.  
"You took my freedom from me, Clint. You and the government and the Wars and this place. But it was always mine. It was always a part of me; it came with me. It's not a commodity to be traded back and forth, and it's not a gift that can be given away." he stared into his eyes for another long minute, searching with his entire heart, trying to make his fiancé see. "Do you understand that, Clint?"

Clint looked terribly confused, and more than a little hurt.  
"I just thought - "  
Sloane smiled, ruefully, and kissed him.  
"I know you did, babe. I know."

Still smiling, Sloane shook his head, took a deep breath and walked past Clint into the dark. Almost at the door, he stopped, began picking up things to put into a bag.  
"I'll go." he said, no cadence leaking through in his voice. "I'll admit to you that I won't mind going. Maybe we will be happier in Jalisco. I hope so."

~:~

The room was no longer bustling when Sloane walked in at 4. It had that ill, quiet quality of hospital waiting rooms, or courthouse hallways. The boys, as Clint had so dismissively called them, were sitting around the room, looking as if they were busy reenacting the five stages of grief. Suleiman was looking wistfully at a sleeping Ortega; he shook his head in disbelief. Jesse was pacing angrily at the other side of the room, stopping to look up as Sloane entered, then going back to pacing once again. Torréon was playing a miniature game of tug-o-war with Ortega's shoelace, and Sai was sitting on the bed. He looked sadder than Sloane had ever seen him, and Sloane found this rather surprising; he hadn't known that Ortega and Sai were such good friends. But in a close group, he supposed, of only six men, everyone was bound to be at least somewhat close. Sloane looked over to Ortega. True to motif, the young carrier was laid on his back, asleep on his own bed, with his boxes packed and his friends all around him, and he looked totally, utterly, completely at peace. Acceptance.

Sloane smiled at all of them.  
"It's almost time." he said. Jesse jerked his head up.  
"We know. James said he would call when the truck got here."  
Sloane ignored the snippiness and nodded simply, sitting down on a clear spot on the opposite bed. He peered up at Jesse.  
"Did Michael call after I went to bed?"

Jesse hesitated, and the pause made Sloane sorry he'd asked. The answer was obvious now, from the tense set of Jesse's jaw, the pacing, the anger in his voice and his eyes.  
"No."   
Sloane swallowed and tried to think of something to change the topic.  
"Well, he probably just got busy. There's a lot of catching up to do, even when you're not even gone a week."  
Jesse shrugged his shoulders and tried to look nonchalant.  
"Of course. Work can wear even the most dedicated man out."

They let the silence proceed for a minute, and the room lapsed back into the curious, uneasy waiting-feel of before.   
Suddenly, the wall-unit phone rang.

Sai leapt up to answer it. Ortega startled awake and began to sit up; Suleiman rushed to help him. Jesse stood helplessly, rooted to the floor where he was, looking for all the world like a frightened rabbit. Sloane surveyed the scene before him. Perhaps this was why Vichy had chosen to leave as he had - no tense conversations, no fast-beating hearts, no regrets of words or language - none of the things that accompanied goodbyes. He'd left only letters, and the promise of his love.

Sai was hanging up the phone now, turning back to the group with an expression that was mixed in excitement and worry.  
"It's here. The men will be in any moment."

It was done. It was said. They looked at each other. Then, like well-trained audience members at concert recitals, they all quietly took up their seats again.

~:~

Within an hour, Ortega's room had been moved. It was all loaded onto the truck, prepared to travel onto base so that it could go with them on the train to Jalisco. The train left, James reminded, at five-thirty. Goodbyes would have to be swift. They had better be sure they were on it. Ortega stood by the open back door of the shiny black car and kissed each of his Center friends goodbye. Suleiman went first, then Sai, then Sloane. Jesse was last of all.

"Be good, Jesse." Tega whispered in his ear when they leaned close to embrace. "Be good always, and remember to behave as if I were here."  
Jesse laughed.  
"I've gotten in most of my trouble while you were here."  
Tega frowned.  
"Then Jesse, just behave." he leaned forward to hug his friend. "Baby friends, right? You'll come to visit?"  
Jesse felt a tiny sting at the corner of his eyes.  
"Of course I will. I'll come to visit." he took a minute to swallow a lump in his throat. "Hey, don't forget me, OK?"

Ortega pulled away and looked at him with disdain.  
"Jesse Paik O'Connor. As if I could ever forget you."   
Jesse smiled and Ortega leaned in for one more hug.  
"I love you, Jesse. Please come see me."  
Jesse nodded; he couldn't speak.

"Tega, sweetheart."  
Everyone recognized the tone; James was reminding his wife that it was time to go.

Jesse stood outside for a long time in the rising daylight, watching his breath disappear into the cold winter dawn as the black car drove off down the road.

~:~

Havar opened his eyes with a jolt. The dream had been alive, it had been so dangerous, so close and so real...where was he? He blinked a few times and made out the shape of the porthole, and the moon through it. Still on the ship from the Canal State, then. Havar couldn't see much of anything, not in this room or from this angle, but he could feel the steady rock and sway of the water below them. In the darkness, he flailed out for Demen. The man was awake immediately to hold him.

"I'm here. I'm here, Havar."  
Havar's breathing began to calm.  
"Bad dream?"

He nodded. Demen didn't need much more than that; he understood Havar's need for silence, his reticence to talk, and the little jumps he made whenever he was unexpectedly touched.

"Well, it's OK now. You're here. You're safe. You're fine. And luck be with us, we won't have much longer on this ship." the doctor rolled over onto his side under the thin blanket and settled one arm over Ortega for comfort. "You and I are almost to India."

~:~

The priest raised his hand and indicated the eager-looking young carrier and the officer standing in front of him.

"And do you, Tiger Vincent DuCourt, take this man, Miljan Ivanov Cubrovic, to be your lawfully wedded husband, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death do you part?"  
Tiger grinned.  
"Oh, I definitely do. Yeah, I totally do."

Behind him there was a coughing which could have been anyone, but was most likely Vincent DuCourt. Tiger squeezed Miljan's hand. Miljan smiled at him, but his face looked tense, strained. Tiger supposed that was probably just been the bruising from the day before. His father hit hard.

The priest continued talking, but neither of them heard anything else until the word 'kiss'. That was when Miljan turned to Tiger, looking at him so intensely that Tiger thought he'd melt, leaned forward with a face that was the picture of raw intent, and kissed him.

General Wilkinson applauded. Staff Sgt. Vincent DuCourt narrowed his eyes.

Outside, the sky began to grey in the waning afternoon.

~:~

It was almost noon when Jesse finally heard anything from Michael. Jess had called him already, twice, over at the officer's quarters on base, but had both times gotten no answer. He'd tried calling Soria to talk about it afterwards, but at the last minute, had chickened out and hung up the phone. Now he lay, alone on the bed in his room, replaying the honeymoon over and over in his head again and thinking, that altogether, it was shaping up to be just a perfectly awful day.

He sat straight up in bed when he heard the knock on the door. He waited a few tense seconds, hoping whoever it was would just go away. They didn't. There was another knock, then a quiet voice.

"Jesse, it's me, Michael. Can you please let me in?"

Jesse jumped out of bed faster than he'd have been willing to admit and ran to the door. Just before reaching it, he paused. Why was Michael knocking? Why hadn't he used his key? Jesse went to the door, twisted the knob just enough to open it, and walked away (so as not to appear too eager). The door swung open just enough to allow Michael in. Jesse was sitting anxiously on a chair, looking expectantly at him, but doing his best to appear nonchalant. Michael closed the door securely behind him and strolled in, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His hair was ruffled, his uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie loosened, and he looked as if he hadn't slept. Jesse felt pangs of worry. Michael looked around.

"Anyone else here?"  
Jesse shook his head. Michael looked to either side of himself, then began to move closer to Jesse, keeping his eyes down. When he had gotten close enough so that he stood over Jesse's chair, he stopped. Jesse swallowed nervously. The silence was killing him.  
"I have something for you."  
Jesse looked up and tried to meet Michael's eyes, but his husband looked away as he retrieved something from his left pocket. He held it out in a closed fist and Jesse put an open palm underneath to catch it. His mother's gold bangle dropped into his hand. Jesse's heart began pounding immediately.  
"What is this?"  
"It's hers. Your mother's. Soria's."  
"I know that. Where did you get this?"  
"She sent it with me. To you. For you. She said that when you guys meet again, you can give it back to her."

Jesse had been examining the gold bangle for any signs of stress - had it been removed under duress? Soria almost never took these off. At the last sentence, his head snapped up.  
"When we meet again?" he jumped to his feet. "Where is she? Where has she gone? Did somebody take her?!"

Michael lifted his head and tired eyes looked straight into Jesse's.   
"Your mother is safe, Jesse. She's fine."  
Jesse shook his head, backed away.  
"What did she say to you? When did you see her? How do you know she's fine?! She could be anywhere, anything could have happened!"  
Michael just waited for his tirade to finish.  
"I know she's fine, Jesse, because I saw to her myself. Yesterday. Well, the night before last. After I dropped you off at the Center, I went to find her."  
"Why?"   
There was so much accusation in that one simple word, that for a moment, it gave Michael pause.  
"Because yesterday, I went to see Soria Paik, helped her pack her essential items, and skipped duty to drive her to my father's safehouse in the gulflands. From there, I arranged a pickup with a family friend of ours; they put her on a train to Monterrey. She called me this morning to say that she'd arrived. She'll stay for ten days at the Admiral's second safehouse in the Southern Territory. That should give you and I enough time to get our stuff together and get the hell out. We'll meet her in Monterrey, then decide where to go from there."

Michael told the story wearily, as if he'd explained it to Jesse a thousand times before. Jesse was silent.  
"You - but - we're leaving?"  
Michael nodded.  
"What about your job? And the house on base?"  
Michael laughed a short, barking laugh.  
"There is no house on base. Not anymore, Jesse. Not now."  
Jesse's eyes widened.  
"What?"  
Michael shrugged.  
"I'm done at DHI. No job. No kissing ass for the general. No work at all with carriers. Because I helped Soria to disappear...they were angry. He was angry, honestly. I didn't tell you before, but it was the general who'd asked after her. Anyway, they blacklisted me. I no longer have any authority in the realm of carrier affairs." here, a mirthless laugh. "They even took my passcard away."

So that was why he'd knocked. For a moment, Jesse was struck with the awful thought that perhaps this was all some kind of elaborate joke, because nobody was that kind, that selfless, that giving, that good. Not even Michael.

"The Admiral's going to try to do something, to salvage it. If there's anything left to salvage."

Jesse didn't know what to say. He wanted to thank Michael, but everything he thought of just seemed so hollow, somehow. Empty. He stared at his husband instead. Michael blinked at him for a few minutes.  
"So there you are, Jesse. Soria is fine. Your mother is safe. I hope that you are happy."

Jesse didn't say anything else, and neither did Michael, and so after some time, the rumpled-looking officer just sighed, turned, and quietly left Jesse's room.

~:~

When Ortega woke, there was an afternoon sun in the sky. He blinked his eyes, rapidly, then looked around. James was in the seat to his left, staring idly out the window as the world passed by in a blur. Tega stretched, then rubbed his belly.

"I'm hungry. What time is it?"  
James didn't look at him.  
"One. I'll get you something from the food car."

Tega sat up fully and looked around them. The scenery outside continued to rush by. The cabin they were in was almost empty - there were a few other people, including another couple, scattered throughout the train. Tega remembered the train being almost full when they had boarded; most everyone must have disembarked sometime while he'd been asleep.

"Where are we?"  
"Passing San Antonio. We've got about four hours left." James looked over at him tenderly.  
"How'd you sleep?"  
Tega smiled.  
"I dreamed we were there already."

James smiled back and reached out to squeeze his hand. A quiet moment passed between them. Suddenly, James frowned.  
"Are we gonna be OK, Ortega?"  
Tega patted his hand reassuringly.  
"We're going to be just fine."

~:~

The rap at the door startled Sai out of his reading. He'd spent most of the day lying in Ortega's now-empty bed, alternately sleeping and reading aloud to Suleiman. It hadn't been a particularly spectacular day. Ortega had left, just as Vichy, and Honesty before him also had, and it was always a somber day, to Sai, when he said goodbye to a friend. It seemed always like a death; there was so apparent the possibility that he would never see them again. The rapping sounded again, and now Suleiman, who had before been lying on his own bed with his eyes closed, sat up and looked at Sai.

"I'll get it." he closed the book, ignoring Suleiman's studious gaze, and went to the door.

Outside, Broussard was standing, not in uniform, with his arms clasped behind his back.  
"Good afternoon, Mr. Wyatt. I did not intend to disturb your temps-libre. However I do think I am in possession of something which might be of interest to you."

Sai's expression was first confused, then suspicious, then, as he caught the glint of a twinkle in Broussard's eye, delighted. Sai made a wait-here gesture with his hand and turned back to Suleiman, who was no longer sitting up; he was again lying on his back on his own bed, eyes closed and face peaceful.

"Sue? I'm goin' out for a while, man." Suleiman opened his eyes. Sai shifted anxiously to the other foot. "Might see a movie, hang with some friends, pick up some stuff from my room - listen, don't worry if I'm home a little late, is all. And I'll probably get dinner by myself."  
Suleiman nodded, the movement almost imperceptible.   
"Be careful, Sai Maka."  
Sai turned around to face him; Sul was sitting cross-legged on the bed now, his silver eyes alert and penetrating - seeing into a something that Sai had never been able to fathom. Sai nodded.  
"I will, Sue. But don't worry. I'll only be gone for a little while."

~:~

Villa Guerrero was exactly and nothing like he'd remembered it being. Where there had been schools and busy intersections in his childhood, there were now empty ruins and tiny markets. The houses had changed, their owners dead or moved on or fled or gone to war. The streets sounded different when he walked upon them - the familiar pit-pat had a new depth to it, a new sadness. He supposed the earth had been pressed down by the walking of the leaving and the dead. James asked him where he'd played.

"Um..." he spun around for a minute, trying to get his bearings in a world that was utterly changed. "There. And there. See that big rock? That was the safe spot when we played tag."

And they had turned then to see his grandmother and his grandfather, now older and leaning heavily on a cane, standing there in the road to greet them. His grandmother flung her arms out, and for a minute, the wind took ahold of her hair and her dress and Ortega feared she would be carrief off, fly away before he ever got to go to her and tell her he loved her. James squeezed his hand once and he dropped his bags and he ran. Her scent was still the same; it always would be. He held onto her shoulder and wanted to cry.

Then, suddenly, she tensed and he realized that James was behind him, standing there, intruding on this perfect moment. With great effort, he pulled himself away and made the introductions in Spanish.

"Mama, this is James. Papa, James. He's my husband. Sort of. In three days, at least."

Amusement flickered across his grandmother's face but quickly disappeared as both of them reached out to greet James formally, then lead the two of them back to the house.

~:~

Jesse sat for a long time alone in his room. Outside, the sky blended into afternoon, then dusk, then the dim light of evening. He didn't read; he didn't eat; he didn't do anything but think about Michael and wonder if their lives were really fucked irrevocably up.

Collapsing on the bed, he decided: he wanted to talk to Soria. Was she really safe? Was Michael lying? It disturbed him, now, to think that Michael would lie. Before, he had expected it, anticipated it, waited for the day that it would come. Now, he felt only terror at the possibility. He rolled over onto his side. No job. No DHI. But that had been Michael's doing, not his - not his own. He had never ordered Michael to go and seek his mother out and make her a fugitive in their own country. He had never told him to be a hero.

But that was a selfish interpretation, because really, Jesse knew that he had. He hadn't demanded outright, but he'd made it clear that any injury which came to Soria would be held in direct account to Michael and their marriage. He'd created Michael's responsibility. So Michael, it seemed, had done the noble thing. And now he suffered for it. They both suffered. Jesse self-deprecatingly wondered if he had a need to suffer; if maybe it was the only way he ever learned. Jesse rolled over onto his back. He hadn't even had a chance to apologize. He needed to talk to Michael.

~:~

Home was more like he remembered it than the town had been. His room, in fact, was still almost exactly the same, although Tega noticed as they entered that the garden had been expanded, and his grandparents had annexed part of the house next door. A walkway and more gardens now connected the two, and the fence had been extended to wrap around both.

"You'll stay in the second house." his Mama explained as they went walking in, Torréon awake and released from his crate and following behind them. (James and Papa had gone to have a tour of the grounds.) "So that you'll have some privacy."

Tega reddened a little bit at her implication, and wondered privately if she knew about the baby. But of course she knew, he thought. It would be obvious; in the way he walked, the way he couldn't stop himself from touching his stomach, the frequency with which he slept and ate, and the way that James attended, almost obsequiously, to his every mood. If she didn't know now, she was sure to know soon.

"I'm pregnant." he blurted it, hoping that to say it quick would take some of the power out of the words. It didn't, but neither did it seem to strengthen them. Either way, his Mama didn't react unduly; she simply paused and fiddled with the knob on the door she was leading him into, trying to coax it into working.  
"I know, Ortega." she said, letting them both in the door. "I know how these things go."

Inside, as if the shanty wooden door with the half-broken knob offered some sort of protection, she asked him conspiratorially if he was happy about it. Ortega thought.  
"I wasn't, before, when I thought I would be alone. But if I'm here - if I am with you," he indicated not just her, but the entire place - home, Villa Guerrero, the South. "I think I'll be fine. I know I will be. So, I think that I was not happy before, but I think that I am happy now."

She smiled broadly and hugged him tight, squeezing the air out of his lungs.  
"I worried so much about you." she whispered into his hair. "Promise me you'll never go away for so long again."  
Ortega smiled sincerely now, feeling giddy with nostalgia and homesickness and the novelty of travel and her love.  
"I promise, Mama. I promise."

Ortega clung to her in that sweet moment, with the sun going down fast in Jalisco and the chill of nighttime coming in with the breeze, and his family's love around him like a blanket. He had so much to tell her, so much to say...then it was all interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.

Ortega snapped his head up to look at her. His grandmother's face was a study of mixed emotions - anxiousness, fear, delight, worry, mischief.  
"Excuse me, please." she said calmly. "I believe our houseguest is calling for me."

~:~

Sloane was in his room, packing, but when Jesse noticed this, he had neither time nor inclination to ask why. He half-knocked and burst in the door.

"Sign me out!"  
Sloane paused with one hand hovering above a box of clothes, and stared at him, perplexed.  
"What?"  
"Sign me out! I've got to go to base. I need to talk to Michael."

Clint appeared out of the bathroom, his arms clutched full of toiletries, and dropped them carelessly into a box. Sloane threw a quick glare at him, then turned his attention wearily back to Jesse.

"What is this? What's going on?"  
"Come on, Sloane, I gotta go!"  
Jesse seemed a little excitable, and Sloane put up a hand to calm him.  
"OK. OK. Calm down. What's the problem?"   
"No problem, I just need my husband!"  
Clint came up behind Sloane, resting a hand around his waist.  
"I can take him to sign out, can't I? Do you want to stay here and I'll go? I don't mind."

Jesse raised an eyebrow at the stranger he now felt was standing here in Clint's place. Sloane put one hand over Clint's and patted it gently.

"How about we both go?"  
"Sounds great!" Jesse interrupted. "Let's just head out..."  
"Alright, alright." Sloane was almost grinning at Jesse's excitement. "Just give me a minute."

~

The in/out desk made him take a chaperone, since he was after all, going on-base alone. Jesse pointed out that he would just be going straight in to his husband's room, but they insisted and when he got irritated, it just seemed to slow the process, so he just agreed, then sat quietly in the hallway with Sloane and Clint while they waited for the drone to come.

Then he was off, and the chaperone had to rush to keep up with him as he practically ran out of the shuttle cab and into the main entrance of Michael's building.

Inside, he was up the stairs in three bounds, then tearing down the hallway and around the corner to where Michael's room was. Just outside of it, he had to pause for a second because he couldn't remember if it was 7E or 7F, and then he remembered saying to himself that it was F, as in Fuck You and so he banged confidently on the correct door.

It took a minute, but Michael opened it, shirtless in his pyjama pants, his eyes blurred with sleep. He blinked a few times at his visitor.  
"Jesse?"  
"Michael! Let me in!"

Michael rubbed his hands over his face and stepped back from the door. Jesse looked pointedly at the chaperone behind him, and Michael gave the authorization for the drone to leave. Jesse shut the door, cringing a little when it slammed harder than he'd intended.

Michael was, with great effort, more awake now, although he was very clearly fatigued.  
"I have an idea."  
Michael stared at him. Jesse stepped forward.  
"A way I can maybe help out with things, I mean." Michael continued to stare. Jesse took a breath and squared up his shoulders. "You did a really nice thing for me, to take care of Soria. I didn't - I know I made it seem that way, but...you didn't have to do it."  
Michael raised an eyebrow, but kept quiet.

"You never have to do these things, these kind things, but you do them. And I didn't really think about it before now, but...I, um, I never really tell you thanks. And I know I get so mad at you sometimes, about things that really aren't your fault. I mean, don't get me wrong - we both live in a fucked up world, and we're all a little bit fucked up in it, but.." here, he stepped closer to Michael so that they were looking closely into each other's eyes. "But maybe you're not fucked up as bad as everyone else. I shouldn't punish you for what other people have done. To me, or to anyone. I think maybe, in doing that, I was kind of wrong."

Michael's lip quirked up a little.  
"Maybe?"  
Jesse glared.  
"I'm doing the best I can, Michael. You could work with me here."  
Michael inclined his head and gestured for Jesse to go on.  
"So I had this idea. And it's not really a part of what I thought was my plan, either for this week or this month or just life in general. But, I guess, sometimes things happen that weren't a part of the plan. But they can be good things nonetheless, right?"  
Michael tilted his head.  
"And we have this life together now, I guess, you and me, so maybe we could kind of make a new plan. And maybe it could start with this."  
Michael glanced to the side, then back.  
"OK. What's the plan?"  
"I want to have a baby."

Michael was so surprised that it even startled Jesse. He stepped back a few steps.  
"What?!"  
Jesse frowned at his reaction.  
"What?"  
Mike shook his head.  
"No, no, that just - I didn't expect - I mean, honestly, I've been asleep for about four or five hours now and then you show up here banging on the door and drop a bomb like - it's just a surprise, is all."

Jesse shrugged.  
"Well. Don't take it any kind of way. It's just for your job. I don't really want - I just thought maybe it could help."  
Michael tilted his head.  
"Like maybe they wouldn't think you were such a problem kid if they didn't think I was so much of a..." he still had trouble saying the word. "you know. Liability. Then maybe they'd be able to forget about what you did with Soria. We have a government that is good at forgetting."  
Jesse couldn't keep the bitterness out of the end, and Michael was silent.

"So I don't know, maybe I could act like I was good, at least for a while, and then we could have this baby, and you could have a family, and your boss would forget, and everything would be fine."  
Michael raised an eyebrow. Jesse started to feel embarrassed.  
"I just thought maybe I could do something nice for a change. You know, be the hero for once."

Michael tried to suppress his smile, but it sneaked out anyway. He leaned forward, and hugged Jesse, laughing into his hair.  
"Jess, sweetheart. You're a hero everyday."

Jesse's heart lifted, and he compensated for the momentary giddiness by putting on his harshest frown.  
"Well, listen, do you want to do it or not?"  
"Do what?"  
"The kid! You don't listen."  
Michael laughed and kissed him, full on.  
"I love you spectacularly, Jesse Paik O'Connor."  
Jesse couldn't stop himself from grinning this time.  
"I'll take it that's a yes."

Michael pulled away from him again, looking a little sheepish.   
"I have to admit, I actually thought of that before, but I didn't want to - I mean, I didn't, and still don't, want to push you into doing something you're not ready for."  
Jesse reached up and ran his hand through Michael's short hair.  
"It's OK. No pushing. And while we're on that topic, I'm sorry about the bowl." Now it was Jesse's turn to look sheepish. "I didn't know it was your mom's. And that's still no excuse, but I'm sorry I was an ass about the whole thing. And I'm sorry I threw the knife. And I'm sorry I said I was paying my ransom. And I'm sorry I ruined our honeymoon. And I'm sorry I - "  
Michael kissed him.  
"Jesse, baby? It's OK. I forgive you."  
Jesse exhaled a relieved breath.  
"That's kind of nice to know. So...since we're all in agreement on the forgiveness and the plan, why don't we get things started. Which way's your bed?"

Michael smiled happily, trailing after Jesse, who was pulling him along by his left thumb.  
"I just have one request, Jesse - could I possibly get just fifteen more minutes of sleep first?"

~

Jesse swore at the phone when it rang and checked the time on the clock by Michael's bed. 10 pm. Not very late. But, truth be told, he could go right back to sleep; he felt pretty tired. Michael woke at the second ring and rolled over to answer it. After a minute of listening to an excited-sounding speaker on the other end, he held it out to Jesse.

"Jess, sweetheart? It's for you."

Jesse took the receiver. Ortega's voice exploded out of the other end.  
"Jesse! Thank goodness you're awake! Listen, I am in Jalisco and everything is fine. But there is a story, a little problem that I wondered if you or Michael might be able to help me with."  
Jesse cleared his throat and sat up.  
"Problem?"  
Ortega affirmed this from the other end of the line.  
"Yes. My grandmother has a baby."  
Jesse was stunned into silence.  
"It's not _her_ baby, of course, no. But she found him. The mother died. He was born of a _woman_ , Jesse. Nobody knows but the town. And me. And James. And you. And Michael, probably. But we wants to keep that secret, you see. I hope these phones are not tapped. Anyway, it has to be a secret because if the government knew, who knows what would happen to the baby? And now we are here, and the town is growing, and my grandparents cannot raise a baby! They are old, and there is too much work to do. And he has no family - it was just his mother and the woman's father, but the old man died a few weeks ago and now there's no one left. And we can keep him, but with a baby of my own in the summertime coming, we thought maybe it would be better to find him a good home forever, you know? Where he can be the only baby, and be loved and cared for. So I need your help. I need to find him a home, but it must be a good one. Someone who will help him, educate him, raise him well - you know? Someone who wants, but more importantly, deserves a son?"

Next to Jesse, listening in on the conversation, Michael jerked and sat up.  
"Tell him I think I can help."

~:~

"It's not fair that you get to be on top just because you push me around and you're bigger."  
Miljan snorted happily and nuzzled the ticklish spot between Tiger's shoulderblades.  
"Yes, it is fair. It is a law. The Law of Bigger."  
Tiger narrowed his eyes at Miljan over his shoulder.  
"You're a bully."

Miljan nestled down deeper into the blankets, dragging Tiger down with him.  
"I love you."

Tiger wriggled upwards a little so that his head protruded from the blankets again.  
"Well, you could love me a little more gently. That way maybe I'll last longer."

Miljan laughed, pulled Tiger back down under the covers, and kissed him. Outside, the first flakes of snow began to fall in the last hour of the month of November.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moonrise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/171562) by [Stella (bella)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella/pseuds/Stella)




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